


Gloriana

by Raziel



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, Lord M - Freeform, Queen Victoria - Freeform, Vicbourne, Whitehall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-05-22 00:22:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 83,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14925842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raziel/pseuds/Raziel
Summary: Explores another path not taken. Not the world of my other stories, nor that one we know as "reality". Yet another exploration of what might have been.





	1. Chapter 1

 

> In the Year of Our Lord 1840, Third Year of the Reign of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria

20 May 1840

“By the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, Her Majesty Queen Victoria.” The practiced stentorian voice boomed through the Privy Council Chamber at Buckingham Palace, and twelve men, senior statesmen, titled and beribboned, leapt to their feet. Early on, after the bloom of novelty had worn off, some had reverted to the blasé attitude and posture they had affected in the presence of her uncle, the old Sailor King. He of the quick temper and loud voice had never noticed or, if he had, remarked on any lack of enthusiasm.

Neither had she, slip of a girl…but no man who had trembled under the least quirk of her right eyebrow, the patient, almost mocking gaze she directed toward any recalcitrance, wanted to endure a repeat of the surprisingly effective silent chastisement Queen Victoria had been known to mete out. And in truth, most of those present found themselves more in awe of their sovereign than they liked to admit.

Three years since that bright June day in 1837 had seen her grow into her rule. Dignity she had always displayed in abundance, a natural dignity which could not be feigned. And Lord knows, she had always known her own mind, led by no one, with a surprising self-assurance and flashes of quick temper.

The young woman of 21 who stood before them was all that one would hope for and more in a monarch. A keen intellect and diligent study ensured she was more prepared than the Ministers who brought matters before her, always able to exploit those flaws in an argument one hoped might be overlooked, a shaky command of detail one hoped might evade scrutiny. Her voice was cool and clear, and varied little in emotional range. It need not; Victoria could communicate more with the merest hint of inflection than her uncle had in his seaman’s bellowing tones. She tolerated neither insolence nor ignorance, and while she rarely showed displeasure overtly…she showed it nonetheless.

The years between 18 and 21 had wrought a change in her physical appearance as well. The smudging of her adolescent features, still soft and plump with baby fat at 18, had refined themselves into those of a woman, cheekbones more prominent, elegant jawline, long neck holding high a proud neat head. Those blue eyes, once so bright with eagerness and lack of guile, had developed some reticence over time, long lids and lashes cloaking her innermost feelings and looking out on all she surveyed with assurance and a trace of amusement, as though she saw and understood far more than she acknowledged. One had a sense, a courtier observed, that she had her own secrets and saw those of others.

The Viscount Melbourne was at her side, as always. Their closeness was no longer much remarked upon. At the beginning it was feared by some that he would exert undue influence over the young girl-Queen; that she would be dazzled by him and eager to be led by a strong male hand. No one who saw them together six or more hours a day could credit the difference it made, not in the Queen’s unformed character but rather in that of a man of sixty, a confirmed rake and seasoned politician. In Her Majesty’s presence his language was no longer freely salted with curses and even those increasingly rare times he was found apart from the Queen he was careful to avoid the merest hint of scandal.

Early wagers had been on Melbourne’s influence waning as she settled onto the throne. A sheltered girlhood hidden away at Kensington had left her naïve and unfamiliar with the pleasures of society. Surely, it was supposed, whatever the appeal of his admittedly charming manner and the tender regard with which he shepherded his young sovereign, soon enough the Queen’s interest would fade. And once she was suitably married, her husband would take Melbourne’s place.

Suitors had come. For a time, the money was on Prince Ernst of Coburg, a gregarious, charming cousin for whose company the Queen showed decided partiality.  There were those, in the minority, who wagered his younger brother Prince Albert would take the prize. Certainly, her Uncle Leopold, King of the Belgians, pushed that match strongly enough and he had his friends in government, notably Viscount Palmerston, who pushed his agenda. Louis-Phillipe of France had put his younger son in the game, as did the Russian Grand Duke. Every royal house in Europe had a stateless prince living at their court, most had younger sons to spare, and all of them threw contenders into the race.

Victoria laughed and danced and flirted and she did not forbid her ministers from entertaining offers on her behalf. There were rumors of stolen kisses and lovelorn sighs – sighs always, one must concede, from the young men and never the Queen herself. She remained unmoved, neither refusing to consider marriage nor committing herself to any one prospect.

Her manner in that regard – behavior which might even be called coquettish in any young woman who did not sit on a throne – fueled the certainty that she would not remain single forever, yet she showed no unique interest in any of them.

A year or more after the initial gossip had died away there were some who revived it, saying shrewdly that while Her Majesty might be a beautiful and very eligible young woman and an accomplished flirt, the only man she held in genuine regard was William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne.

But there, those who would have jumped most eagerly on any hint of impropriety were disappointed. Under the closest scrutiny, nothing untoward was noted. Melbourne certainly received no pecuniary advantage and had refused even the Garter; he exerted no influence in favor of his friends or to the detriment of his ideological foes. Victoria’s manner with him was impeccable, immune from censure. She liked him, certainly; listened rapt to his stories, laughed at his witticisms, sat him always in a place of honor on her left hand. But the most suspicious observers, and in her Household there were many, ladies-in-waiting who could dine out for a year on any tidbit lending credence to suspicion, saw no blushes, no simpers, none of the head-tossing and thrown-out bosoms of a young lady bent on amorous encounter.

Lord Melbourne, more than a few acknowledged, had a tenderness in his eyes when they rested on her; tears had been seen to fill his gentle eyes as he watched her play her ceremonial role. But that, it was agreed, could as readily be paternal only, the affection of a man with no children of his own, toward a girl who might have been the daughter he did not have. Not that Melbourne cut a paternal figure. Age had not diminished his appeal.

Most who concerned themselves with the need of their sovereign to make a dynastic marriage agreed, with fading hopefulness, that she knew she must marry and would certainly do so, if not out of inclination, then out of duty.

Some, however, and they were increasing in number, responded to such optimism with a single word: Gloriana. Elizabeth Regina, the Virgin Queen, forty-five years on the throne and never took a husband, her alliance with Robert Dudley uncannily parallel to this Queen’s affinity for her chief minister.

**

“Gentlemen, we have only one matter to address today and that is our desire to rescind the Act for the Transportation of Offenders from Great Britain. Lord Melbourne, please proceed.”

“Your Majesty,” Melbourne bowed with his usual fluid grace. Victoria inclined her head by way of acknowledgement, and to indicate her willingness that he proceed.

“Her Majesty’s Council has been asked to prepare an order rescinding the Act so named. Amongst other things enacted, this order stated that it should be lawful for His Majesty by and with the advice of His Privy Council from time to time to appoint any place or places beyond the seas either within or without His Majesty’s Dominions to which felons and other offenders under Sentence or Order of Transportation or Punishment should be conveyed. And whereas by an order Made by the Advice of his said late Majesty’s privy Council on the 23rd June 1824. His said late Majesty was pleased in pursuance of the powers so vested in Him as aforesaid to appoint New South Wales and Van Dieman’s Land and all Islands adjacent thereto, to be places to which Felons and other offenders then being, or thereafter to be under sentence, or Order of Transportation or punishment should be conveyed.

Her Most Gracious Majesty has expressed her desire to rescind this order and on the advice of Her Privy Council to revoke the said recited Orders in Council, and to substitute in lieu thereof such other provisions as are hereinafter mentioned. This order is to take effect on the first day of August 1840.  The Marquis of Normanby and the Right Honorable Lord John Russell, two of Her Majesty’s principal Secretaries of State, are to give the necessary Instructions herein.

We are agreed to formalize this Order, my lords?”

The Queen’s eyes moved smoothly around the table while Lord Melbourne delivered his recitation. Her expression was as carefully composed as ever, into a pleasant mask which gave away nothing, but each man knew her sharp gaze looked for the minutest signs of disagreement. After she had looked at every man in turn, she rested that gaze on Lord Melbourne.

He turned to fully face her, bowed once more, and took his seat.

There was no reason to debate an issue which had been thoroughly gone over, both pro and con, in earlier sessions so all that remained was for Lord Bathurst to call for approval. Once that was done Victoria rose, briefly nodding her satisfaction, and to show her appreciation for their brevity and compliance, rewarded her council with a smile that each man felt down to his toes. When she smiled, Victoria Regina, for all her self-assurance and the mantle of authority she wore like armor, was a remarkably appealing young woman.

**

Melbourne lingered, talking such commonplaces as his colleagues initiated, exchanging commentary on the latest _on dit_ , listening to talk of the exploits of adult children, the over lavish spending of wives, receiving invitations to visit this one’s country home, that hunting lodge. He issued casual reminders of bills outstanding, inquired as to the status of a speech another intended to give in the House. He stepped in front of his clerk and began idly sorting and stacking papers, filling his leather portfolio with those briefs he knew he’d need to read later.

Only when the council chamber was emptied and he had dismissed his secretary – and nephew – Will Cowper, did he indulge in a brief mental image of the young woman who had so recently stood before them. Not that he need make an effort to recall her appearance. Lord Melbourne had lived, breathed, slept and awakened – most often in a painful state of arousal – to her image, burnt indelibly into his mind. The lithe young figure he knew so well, far better – from simple proximity as well as obsession – than he’d known that of any mistress or wife. The timbre of her voice, crystal clear, soft but perfectly audible, each word clearly enunciated and carefully modulated. Or, the timbre of her voice when she spoke to him alone, less guarded, words sometimes tumbling over each other in the last vestiges of girlish enthusiasm he alone was privileged to see. Then he heard her laugh, a delightful sound, sparkling and bright as a summer day. _No poetry, William,_ he chided himself, amused at his turn of phrase.

One would think that constant exposure alone might reduce the powerful aphrodisiac effect, but he found himself turgid far more often at sixty than he had at sixteen. It was some compensation, he told himself, for the state he was in, the state she kept him in, unaware. _Not entirely unaware perhaps, oh no..._

It was true, he often suspected she realized precisely the effect she had on him. Never flirtatious as another woman would be, she nonetheless stood closer than circumstance required, so close he could the heat of her skin. Reach for some paper and let her fingers brush his, allow her arm to rest beside his. Even lean against his shoulder when they sat together, late into the evening, opening a second bottle of wine.

And their talks – such talks! She never tired of hearing him speak and was an attentive audience of one. She stored up his opinions and often, not always, made them her own. He was less careful than he ought to be, perhaps, but she was so readily amused by the risqué stories he told. Titillated, he thought sometimes, when she encouraged him to go farther than he otherwise might in regaling her with some unnamed third person’s amorous adventures, explaining – in theory, always in theory – what appeal might be found in outre practices. Even, in broad euphemism, and only in response to her breathless giggling demands, those _French_ customs some found in certain _gentlemen’s clubs_ in Piccadilly.

Melbourne smirked, remembering how his proud young queen, that same one who made grown men tremble for their dignity lest they displease her somehow, reverted to a playful laughing girl. And only, he thought, for him.

Of that he could not be certain, of course. He dutifully brought to her attention each new letter proposing a match, each suggestion someone’s younger son or nephew visit the Court of St. James with matrimony in mind. And he dutifully stood by when she greeted them all winsome smiles and prettily tilted head, when she flirted and let them hear that soft seductive laughter which passed for the real thing in company. Watched as she danced with her swains, walked out on the balcony from an overheated ballroom, strolled in the moonlight on some prince’s arm. He could not follow then, although he was never far behind and never entirely out of view. She was, after all, his sovereign and it was his duty to protect her.

Those visits were the worst torture he endured. Victoria would never say _no_ , would never tell him she had no intention of marrying, carefully circumvented the issue with him where she confided every other thought as soon as it formed. Sometimes he thought she still sought to extract retribution for that one afternoon at Brocket Hall, still hoped to punish him for doing no more than his duty. They had never spoken of it again, her declaration of love, her admission of desire. He didn’t expect her to, as much as he hoped and feared she might. Turning her away had torn his heart asunder and he knew he had wounded her, a girl still young and trusting and innocent enough to believe she need only reach for something to grasp it. He had not only broken her heart, he knew that he had inflicted a more dangerous wound to her pride. And for that, yes, perhaps he still paid, each time she flaunted her newest suitor under his nose.

“You were delayed?” Victoria greeted him when he stepped into her small private chamber, where she kept only a small writing desk and settee, where her favorite dog slept in a ray of late sun. Where her bedchamber lay just behind one more door.

“I was. Your council tarried. Most have nowhere else to be and, I think, the prospect of empty summer days in the company of their families frightens them.”

Victoria smiled easily at his small witticism. She rubbed at the back of her neck as though it hurt and Melbourne longed to lay his hands on her, to rub the tightness out of that long slim neck. _Little things_ , he thought… _not the ultimate act, but only those little things I long to give and receive. Small homely touches, feel her fingers in my hair, lift her little feet into my lap and rub them after she’s been dancing all night. If only…_

She extracted the pins which held her coiled hair in place and let the long plait fall free. It was a small intimacy she did indulge in, unbinding her hair when only the two of them remained, slipping her shoes off before propping her feet on a low footstool. Just as he loosened his cravat, removed his coat in the evening, when her household was dismissed and the two of them shared a bottle of burgundy wine or the dry champagne she especially favored. Even, when he sometimes fell asleep in her drawing room, lulled by the sound of her women nattering away, her mother’s ongoing games of whist, and awoke to find the two of them alone, she reading quietly beside him or sometimes, just watching him with an unreadable expression. In those quiet private moments protocol fell away and he became William, she Victoria.

“The Duke of Nemours is arriving next week. That means he will attend the Review with us. And we shall have to arrange an entertainment. He will expect a ball and if we wait overlong the city will be empty.” Victoria handed him a letter. Melbourne scanned it quickly.

“His Majesty does not suggest any particular purpose for this visit,” Melbourne said skeptically. Victoria shrugged. _That Mona Lisa smile_. _She does it to madden me._ _Does she favor Prince Louis then? A Frenchman? That would set the fox in the henhouse._ He focused on the outcry that would result from the merest suggestion of a French match. It would never do, of course, and she well knew it. A social visit only then? The notion pleased him no better. Louis, a second son and his older brother had issue so no obstacle there – of course a Queen regnant could never wed another sovereign. Nemours had been betrothed to Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha and a date had been set for the wedding, but some issue regarding the dowry proposed by Thiers had arisen. The betrothal was over so now he was free to marry elsewhere and, presumably, hanging out for a rich wife. How much would Thiers demand from England as a dowry? Melbourne shook off fruitless speculation and looked at Victoria questioningly.

“You intend to invite him then?”

Victoria shrugged, a delicate gesture doubly appealing because it was so different than her usual decided manner. “An invitation does not seem to be necessary. The matter is decided. I can’t bar him entry and…it might be fun.”

“I’ve planned to go down to Melbourne Hall that week. You won’t need me here if it is a private visit,” Melbourne replied smoothly, without considering. Victoria caught his eyes and smiled a little, almost mockingly.

“You said nothing about a trip to Melbourne Hall. I think you just decided to go.” Victoria had walked around the desk between them, her skirts swaying gently.

“Perhaps I did. One has to decide these things sometime, and now is as good a time as any.” Melbourne felt his senses ignite, her scent filling his nostrils – her hair, some lotion she used, such warm clean smell – and even the sound of her quiet breathing filling his ears.

“Then you may decide to stay. I would like you here. You must ride with me at the Trooping of the Color, and…at the ball…you must dance with me…” with each word she drew closer, so that she stood immediately in front of him. Melbourne instantly, fully responded to her nearness.

Victoria did nothing, said nothing, that could be construed as an invitation, as permission to do the unthinkable, yet he knew – he _knew_ , with every fiber of his being – that if he reached for her she would not resist, would not pull way. Would press herself into his arms, open her lips under his kisses, push her small firm breasts into his hands. _And where would we go from there? How could we return to normalcy after that great chasm opened? We couldn’t...and I would lose what we have._

He stepped back, turning to lay the letter on her desk, going to look out the window over the lawns of Buckingham House.

“The park is quite full today. It seems most of London is taking the air.” He knew as soon as he spoke how very inept the attempt to set them on firmer ground was. She did too; she laughed softly, but it was not unkind, he thought. Not mocking him, but perhaps mocking _them_ and the impossible immutability of fate.

“Yes, it is. Shall we join them? Will you ride with me, Lord M?”


	2. Chapter 2

_Miss Emily Eden_

Victoria felt restless and out of sorts in the heat which had descended on London the last week of June. It was not only the weather which had her feeling that way, she knew. They were still in residence at Buckingham House but would move to Windsor that day.

June had been filled with social and ceremonial obligations, now complete – or nearly so. Victoria’s official birthday and the anniversary of her coronation came and went. She had reviewed the Trooping of the Colors, a grand occasion which as it always did lifted her out of herself so she was quite transported by the majesty of her God-given role. When she saluted a thousand male hearts melted in their chests, for their beautiful young Queen so obviously viewed them with reverent appreciation for the sacrifices they made. Or, most specifically, their brothers-in-arms, for few of these Coldstream Guards and Household regiments so resplendent in their finery had ever endured the privation and discomfort of service in a foot regiment high in the snow-covered mountains of Afghanistan or sweltered in an Indian summer while blackflies inflicted more casualties than enemy shells.

Nemours had come and Victoria found him a stiff, unpleasant young man full of his own importance – another Albert, in fact, although with far more of the social graces than her odd cousin ever displayed. And he was a fine dancer! Victoria quite enjoyed the Gallic courtier’s manner, the long lingering glances as he bowed to kiss her hand, his fiery displays of possessiveness when another man presumed to claim a part of her attention. What she hadn’t liked was his open rudeness to her Ministers, and the way he pointedly dismissed Lord Melbourne from her presence. Her _Prime Minister_! _How dare he_! Victoria had bristled and reminded Louis of his own country’s dependence for their very survival on the goodwill of elected representatives of the people.

What Victoria had liked even less was Lord M’s congenial acceptance of his dismissal and his agreement with Prince Louis that when Parliament was prorogued he need not attend the Queen daily, for what government business could there be with no government in session?

She had even doubted whether Melbourne would put himself forward at the ball held in her honor, when protocol demanded that visiting royalty escort her in to dinner and be first to squire her onto the floor to signal dancing had commenced. She had danced with others of course, Lord Conyngham, Lord Stanley, Lord Palmerston and even for one awkward polka, Lord Brougham, that glowering radical she had learned to dislike from his public abuse of Lord M. Victoria no longer enjoyed the country dances and reels, those energetic romps which had so appealed to her when she was young. In common with the other great ladies, whose elegance she so admired, she preferred to leave the red face and excessive disarray more boisterous dances entailed to the younger dancers. At one-and-twenty, she no longer counted herself one of their number.

All evening – and the ball lasted until nearly two o’clock – the Queen had studiously avoided watching Lord M as he moved about the perimeter of the ballroom, so achingly handsome in tie and tails, as he talked, laughed, flirted – _yes, she was certain that_ particular _look, that way of just slightly turning more fully toward the lady who held his attention was_ flirting _–_ and seemed to quite successfully ignore her in the process. She had a few moments of doubt, doubt that he was oblivious to her presence, happy doubt, when she turned her head in his direction and caught him looking in hers, so their eyes met. That was when she would suddenly startle Prince Louis by looking at him with blinding warmth in her smile and what persuaded him was more than mere diplomatic friendship in her eyes, and he mentally composed the victorious letter he would send his father by the next pouch. For a few minutes her attention was solely on him and he felt vindicated, dismissing any niggling worry that the Queen of England might be more interested in her own senior statesman than a Prince of France.

When Louis excused himself with an elegant flourish and strode across the floor to bow before a Corsican diplomat’s wife known to him from his time in Greece – so he explained in painstaking detail – Victoria studied the bubbles rising in her glass of champagne with intense focus, refusing to lift her head and look about the room for _him_.

He did come – her heart sang the words, rejoicing – and somehow, she knew before he said a word, while her eyes were still fixed on her glass, knew in her heart as she always sensed his presence. And when he extended his hand she laid her own in his and rose as though transported by some power beyond herself, going into his arms.

“I am flattered you give me a dance, Your Majesty,” Melbourne said in his inimical raspy, caressing voice and Victoria felt shivers dance up and down her spine. His hand lay quite properly at the small of her back and through layers of clothing she could feel tiny electrical jolts from that simple contact. She imagined suddenly what it might be like to feel that same hand in that same place, on her bare skin.

The thought made a warm course of feeling flood through her so unexpectedly Victoria caught her breath in a small gasp and she turned her face up to his.

Melbourne’s head was tilted just slightly, as if to better take in her image, and although his remarkably beautiful eyes were kind and tender as always, Victoria thought – _hoped? Imagined?_ – there was something warmer there too.

“I thought you were far too busy to seek me out, Lord M,” she said, trying to assume a light, teasing tone. She was aware as soon as she spoke that instead her voice was petulant, quite unfitting a Queen. Melbourne chuckled a little.

“I must contrive to occupy myself somehow. May I ask how matters are progressing with His Royal Highness?”

“’Matters’? ‘Progressing’? I don’t understand what you mean. The Prince is here for a visit, no more. He will attend Ascot with us to see his horse run. The Grand Duke has a horse running also, you know.”

“Indeed? The Royal Enclosure will be quite lively that day. Who do you favor in that race, ma’am?” Victoria saw his lips twitch with something like a smile and wondered whether his words held another meaning.

“I have no favorite between those two, Lord M. I favor an English winner.”

“Ah, but…there are no serious English contenders. Ma’am.” He paused. “So my friends tell me. It quite confounds those holding the betting books in our clubs.”

“Then perhaps that is their answer. There will be no clear winner.”

The music ended and regretfully, Victoria felt his hand withdrawn from that delicious contact. She could still feel the warmth where it had lain.

“But ma’am…every race must have a winner. Eventually. Smart money is usually on the stayers, for the Royal Cup.”

**

Melbourne had assured her he was excessively occupied with matters of government demanding his full and undivided attention, issues which required resolution before the members retired to their country homes for the warm months of summer. They would reconvene in autumn when the London social season began in earnest. Yet Victoria noticed with some skepticism that Lord Palmerston still found time to visit every morning, to ride out with her in the Park or walk in the gardens and returned to dine many evenings.

His wife Emily, Lord M’s sister, was a frequent visitor to the Queen’s drawing rooms. She had declined an appointment to the Household, giving as the reason her busyness as Patroness of Almack’s, hostess at the Palmerston’s notable dinners and _salons_ to rival that of the Hollands and put those of the more edgy, keenly intellectual authoress Mrs. Norton in the shade.

Victoria quite enjoyed Lady Palmerston’s company. She was an effervescent woman in her fifties, still a notable beauty, with the Melbourne House wit and slightly eccentric manner. Victoria especially enjoyed hearing her speak of her brother, their childhood running wild at Melbourne Hall, the years they jointly ruled the Regency social scene with their mother and Lord M’s unfortunately celebrated wife Caroline.

Lady Palmerston had been Lady Cowper for many years and was the mother of a handsome grown family, at least some of whom were the progeny of her long-time lover Henry Temple. Victoria had gradually come to understand and accept that those moral strictures which were appropriate to teach a young girl, growing up in the isolation of Kensington and with only a German parson’s daughter to shape the Heir to the Crown, did not apply in society at large. Any residual childish disapproval Lehzen tried to encourage had quite dissipated when Victoria first encountered in herself those same nearly-overpowering human feelings and urges which did not fit between the pages of Scripture.

“William has gone to Brocket Hall, ma’am,” Emily had informed her on the afternoon following her appearance in the House of Lords to dismiss those gentlemen from their labours on behalf of the Crown. Lord M had not appeared that morning and Victoria wondered aloud whether there could still be duties of office keeping him at Whitehall. “I sent him.”

“You sent him?” Victoria repeated, amused. “As though into exile? Or to attend to his poor neglected estate? I’m afraid we keep him quite occupied in London.”

“Both, ma’am. I have advised a period of quiet contemplation for my brother, now that his official duties have given him reprieve.”

“Lord M requires quiet?” Victoria was now skeptical, for never had she known another so entirely refreshed and energized by social interaction. And surely, his hours with her were not arduous? Hopefully, quite the reverse? 

Lady Palmerston smiled, her eyes downcast. _As though I’m a child?_ Victoria wondered, slightly annoyed.

“What? You smile? Do you think he works too hard on our behalf?”

“Not that he would ever complain of, Your Majesty. William quite dotes on you, as you well know. I advise him only that he must have a care for his future. He won’t be your prime minister forever.”

“His future? Why, does he have…financial problems? Does it concern him to lose the stipend his office pays? We have offered him several titles which come with significantly increased revenues, which he always declines. A Dukedom that is in our power to grant – one which the Crown holds reserved, such as was given Wellington.”

Victoria’s blue eyes were shining with earnestness and she could not conceal her enthusiasm for such a project. If his sister were to convince him, she could make him a Duke and then he would take precedence over all but princes of the blood.

“That is very gracious of you, ma’am, and I might take the liberty of persuading him to consider your offer. I believe he deserves it, in recognition of his services on Your Majesty’s behalf.”

“He does! Oh, yes, he does. Pray do speak to him, Lady Palmerston. Perhaps if Lord Palmerston were to add his encouragement –“

“I think I know another who could far more easily do so, and whose opinion he could not easily ignore.”

Victoria blushed and looked away, warmed by the woman’s words. _Does my opinion carry such weight? If he were a Duke there would not be such a disparity between our stations…_

“Do you think if I asked him again – perhaps now that Parliament is adjourned, or even if the unfortunate day comes when we must have a new government, so no one could say he influenced the matter?”

Emily looked directly at the queen, smiling brightly.

“Yes, ma’am, that would be a fine time. I understand William’s reluctance to appear to benefit in any way from the clear respect and affection you have shown him. But I spoke of his wife.”

Victoria’s eyes flew open wide. “His – wife? But she has been dead these many years. Do you mean, he would wish to ennoble her memory? So that she would be…made a Duchess _post mortem_? I’m not sure that is possible, but if it were an important consideration we could consult the Lord Chancellor.”

Victoria, as she matured, had grown to understand that human affections were complex things, and the world could never know the truth of what went on between two people in private, or in their hearts. While she viewed the embarrassment and ridicule Lord M had endured as shameful for his sake, she no longer questioned his decision to remain his frail wife's most stalwart protector. B _ut accept a Dukedom only to elevate the title of a long-dead woman?_

“Oh, no, ma’am. I speak of his future wife. If - when - he marries again,” Emily corrected her misapprehension gently.

“Lord Melbourne thinks of marrying again? How singular!” Victoria struggled to keep her voice level, with no inflection, but her heart was racing. _Would he? Could they?_ He had seemed to take back his regretful, dismissive words from that horrible day, and certainly they had been as close, or even closer, in the days, months, years that followed, but the topic had never been revisited, her declaration and his rejection on that awful day never alluded to.

“His friends, all those who love him, have been encouraging him for years. Miss Eden’s departure hit him hard, and it was perhaps more painful than he anticipated. They write often, of course, not a week goes by without letters coming and going to India but time is passing nonetheless. He will not be your Prime Minister forever, and as much as the dear thing loves her adventures and all the strange sights with which she regales us, she can’t be content to be her brother’s hostess forever. She and William have long been excessively fond of each other, you know, and when Auckland is recalled and William leaves office…well, there won’t be a better time, and he might not get a second chance.”

“Miss Eden? The – the Indian Governor’s sister? I did not…” Victoria fumbled for words to fill the silence and still the swirl of confusion in her mind without betraying herself.

“I’m sure my brother is too much a gentleman to speak of one lady to another, but they are very close, very _warm_ friends and would suit admirably. If we can find a way to introduce the subject, ma’am, you could do a great deal to encourage him.”

“But I don’t _wish_ him to marry anyone!” Victoria blurted.

“He won’t be here forever, ma’am. You will marry and your husband will become your friend and companion. You will have a new minister who will expect, rightly, to be your adviser. What will my brother have then? His books, his library, his chair at Brocket Hall and only memories to fill the rest of his days?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

_[River Lea](https://youtu.be/lxRQlvmH-Uk), Brocket Hall, Hatfield, Hertfordshire_

_I discovered this[song by Adele](https://youtu.be/lxRQlvmH-Uk), and can't resist linking to it as accompaniment to this chapter. It suits our beloved William and his home._

* * *

 

Lord Melbourne had, as instructed, retired to Brocket Hall, the country house his family had long maintained a short distance from London. Reached after a brisk trot in something less than an hour, or two by more sedate buggy, it was near enough to offer a weekend retreat even in the busiest season, yet rural enough to provide needed respite.

The private racecourse of the first Viscount Melbourne had gone to grass, and the banks of the River Lea overgrown with willow and long reeds, but his gardens were maintained in immaculate condition by the same horticulturist who supervised his conservatory and provided the Palace with a succession of weekly floral arrangements year-round.

Alone with his own thoughts was never William Lamb’s favorite condition, and one he had avoided with varying degrees of success throughout his life. The books which surrounded him didn’t claim his attention so much as provide companionship when no other was readily available, and if he’d done his best, most immersive reading of the old masters during those tumultuous years with Caro running her length, it was because it provided a total escape from the cares of imperfect reality.

Now, though, those same books held no appeal. _Imperfect reality_. He mulled over the phrase which had come to mind. _No, not that, never that_ , he decided, because to declare it imperfect would imply he would change it. And he could desire to change nothing about this period of his life, this blessed interlude between long dark times of unhappiness which had dogged him relentlessly.

 _She_ had changed all that, had given him reason and purpose and ignited a flame in his heart which had lain dormant for sixty years. Caro had always complained there was a part of him she could not reach, and her recurring complaint was that she needed to look elsewhere because she never had his whole heart. That was true enough. He had accepted that his was an essentially cool nature, incapable of the flights of passion and fancy which so attracted her to the poet and to the others. Even their intimate life was injected with as much exotic creativity as he could manage, to compensate for the lack of overpowering, reckless urgency Caro seemed to require.

Restless yet without any ambition to tackle the long-overdue projects his estate manager considered deserving of his time and attention, Melbourne had strolled down to the river with a casting rod. He lost track of time staring into the water, allowing his thoughts to wander while pretending to fish, and merely dozed under the friendly shade of a willow.

**

Emily had found him asleep in his chair. He opened his eyes and stared blearily into the gray ones of his sister.

“What are your plans for the summer, William?” she demanded before he could collect his thoughts. He considered the question while waiting for coffee to be brought and could only respond in a croak, his voice hoarse from too much conversation and too much brandy the evening before. _Ah, the evening before…_ Melbourne had visited a certain house in Piccadilly at which he used to be a regular.

He had found his interest waning in the more experienced females to be found at that address, females with an especial affinity for gentlemen of what the patroness called sophisticated tastes. In the past few years that lady found her professional acumen challenged in discerning exactly what the courteous, well-paying Lord Melbourne now wanted, and what possible faux pas had caused his visits to grow infrequent. But there was a reason that lady, with the airs of a Duchess and the income of one too, was considered top of her game. Where cruder, less intuitive of her peers might have thought to provide, subtly of course, more extreme variations of this gentleman’s past interests in hopes of reawakening his libido, thereby substantially augmenting her already substantial income, she had bided her time, making good use of the network of informants she maintained in all quarters of the City.

Her house, as was true of several other of the most exclusive establishments in London, was not merely a brothel, and not even obviously one. Lords and Ministers as often made use of her private drawing rooms to discuss business matters they did not wish overheard, to hold meetings they did not wish observed, to host mysterious foreigners with incomprehensible accents, others well-dressed and fastidious but unmistakably bankers of the Hebrew nationality. Lord Melbourne, First Lord of the Treasury, was of course one of these regulars, long after he waved off the last of the carefully trained temptresses she had put in his way.

This lady was able to keep a son at Cambridge, in one of the lesser schools and under another name, of course, and two daughters at Swiss boarding schools, to collect rents from properties over five shires and reap the rewards of shrewd investment advice shared by her clients, by exercising as much native intelligence, social savvy and understanding of human nature as any Ambassador in Her Majesty’s service. It was a combination of all these, and the fortunate accident of having a former housemaid in service to that same Majesty, which gave her the happy idea of selecting the newest of her protégés, a young actress who sought to earn a lavish income which would support her theatrical ambitions in style.

This young woman, who called herself Bonnie, when scrubbed clean of cosmetics and properly dressed and groomed under the Madame’s personal supervision, demonstrated no mean talent for the stage. She could affect at will a particularly refined upper-class accent, and the mannerisms to go with it. She had her instructions and underwent several evenings’ training. She was to serve the gentleman, no more. There would be no whores’ tricks, no sidelong glances, no swaying hips, licked lips, protrusions of tongue to indicate French skills. She would act as a housemaid only, lowest on the hierarchy of females living under one roof, and would serve the gentlemen when they came for a meeting or to gamble late into the night. Her costume was laughed to scorn by her betters in the house, simple gowns with rounded necks and no daring show of cleavage, devoid of lace and furbelows, the hems decently reaching slipper-shod feet to minimize any appearance of height. Her dark hair was styled in the plainest of chignons, completely absent bows, flowers and other decoration. And she was given the name she would heretofore answer to when on duty.

Melbourne’s thoughts briefly touched on his late night. Some months ago – _how many months? was it a year?_ he wondered idly – he’d spent an evening in the company of Palmerston, Uxbridge, Russell and the younger Devonshire, perhaps one or two others, dining and conversing about what lay ahead for the party. They had, by common agreement, departed Brooks’ at midnight and made for their next destination a certain house in Piccadilly, to continue to drink, in the amiable company of pretty women devoted to their service and comfort. It was a common enough venue for gentlemen of their class and station to end the evening, whether or not they availed themselves of all services available at that address.

Somehow or other, as a fourth bottle was opened, Melbourne had found himself noticing the girl who came and went in discreet silence, emptying ashtrays and refilling glasses, answering only when spoken to and then in a cool, soft, surprisingly well-bred voice. He was sure she was a whore like the rest, and had no problem with that, nor did he see in her choice of career any reason to despise her. While he had less than no personal interest in her, any more in the other denizens of the place, he assumed that if she worked in this very particular establishment she had been well-vetted and would be clean, compliant with any wishes…and discreet.

When he’d excused himself from the table where his cronies still drank and talked, and ventured into the back hallway where Madame would be found, he already knew what he intended.

Of course, the girl was available to speak privately with the esteemed Lord, and would be delighted to do so because, as the abbess confided in arch whispers, she had been sighing and pining for His Lordship to notice her.

It was all a hum of course, but so long as she was of age and willing, why not? It was, without a doubt, his reputation for paying well, tipping generously and not making any demands a girl was uncomfortable with, that had her pining – a fact he acknowledged with a small private grin – but when he’d sat in a armchair in Madame’s private parlor, his smile faded in anticipation.

Since that first time he had been back to see her once or twice a month on average, and always it went the same. She played her scripted role to perfection, without needing prompting, and would serve him brandy or dry champagne and sit across from him conversing in posh tones about whatever topic had been in that day’s _Times_. At the right moment she would approach, drop gracefully to her knees or sit on a low ottoman, and give him what he needed. Never more – he’d never taken her to a private bedchamber, never touched her or asked her to undress, never spoke of the business, for there was no need. Only those soft white hands instead of the others he dreamt of, that smooth dark head bent over him, the faint scent of rosewater, and release.

Afterward he would thank her courteously, lay the expected fee plus a generous tip on the table and depart. It was blameless, after all – he was a man and needed some release beyond what necessity drove him to provide for himself, and the girl made no secret of her delight in being so well compensated for so little effort.  He had no desire to do more – the very idea repulsed him, as did any activity which required active engagement on his part – but what little he sought and received allowed him to maintain a veneer of careful restraint with _her._

_**_

He dismissed that memory of the previous night as unimportant, a convenience, no more, and peered up at his sister.

“The summer, William. Your plans for the summer.” Emily took off her bonnet and laid it aside, put her reticule on his desk and took a seat across from him.

“Never mind. You need to take some time for yourself, and decide what you want to do with your life. Before it’s too late and life decides for you.”

Melbourne rubbed hands vigorously over his eyes to clear them and felt the stubble on his chin. “May I shave and dress first, Em? Before whatever catechism you intend to deliver.”

“Very well. I’ll have the coffee brought up and go with you.”

“That is quite an improper suggestion. Whatever would Henry think of it?”

“William, hush. I’m your sister, don’t be ridiculous.”

He lathered his face generously, standing before the mirror with water and towels laid out.

“You are no young man anymore. You can’t go on this way indefinitely.” Emily paced back and forth, clearly agitated.

“What’s amiss, Em? Talk to me plainly.”

“You moon after the girl like a callow boy. It’s plain to everyone. We all thought it a temporary infatuation on both your parts, understandable enough from a girl who was never brought out into society until that morning when you appeared like Prince Charming to awaken the sleeping Princess.”

“What a fanciful turn of phrase, dear sister,” Melbourne said admiringly, in teasing accents. “’Prince Charming.’ Do you really think she saw me so?”

Emily hmphed loudly to express her exasperation. “William, I demand you be serious. This has gone on for _three years_. It can’t continue.”

“I believe the government can hold out a while longer. Does Palmerston think otherwise?”

“And then what, William? What will you have then? _She_ will have it all, her life, more suitors than she can count. And eventually she will choose one, you must know that. She can’t go on as she is, and neither can you.”

“What do you suggest, Emily? What course do you propose?” Melbourne laid down his razor and picked up a damp towel, laying it over his face and neck.

He washed carefully, moving the cloth in long slow strokes intended to buy time. If it infuriated his sister, all the better. Perhaps she would change her mind about continuing.

“Marry Emily Eden, William. That must happen first, because I don’t think _she_ will consider marriage unless you do so first.”

“But I don’t think I want to marry Emily. And I’m certain she does not want to marry me. We do not suit.”

“You are fond of each other.”

“We are,” Melbourne agreed. “But that isn’t enough for marriage. As you know all too well.”

“You love _her_ ,” Emily said, and neither of them needed to put a name to her statement. They both knew all too well of whom she spoke.

Melbourne did not answer, but his truth was in his troubled, unhappy eyes. Emily leaped on it.

“It does not make you happy, William. And you deserve to be happy more than any man I know.”

Melbourne shook his head a little. “No, Emily, that is wrong. She makes me very happy. Every moment I am in her company, so long as I have the privilege of walking with her, riding out with her, exchanging talk – _such_ conversations we have! – and making her laugh, I am the happiest man alive.”

“And when you can’t, William? What then?” And Emily proceeded to dictate the exact course of action he must take.

**

He had pondered his loving sister's pragmatic advice. In fact, he had thought of little else. When the sun had dropped low in the sky, its fiery rays seeming to set the surface of the river alight, Melbourne reckoned it time to leave the riverbank and return to the Hall. He would bathe and dress, he would write a letter to India…and then he would ride back to Windsor, to rejoin his Queen.


	4. Chapter 4

They had already assembled for dinner, the Queen on the arm of the Duc de Nemours, followed by the Russian Grand Duke escorting the dowager Queen Adelaide and Prince Ernst of Coburg, arrived just that day for an unexpected visit, when the Viscount Palmerston was announced.

Victoria felt mild surprise that her Foreign Secretary would join them unplanned, but a greater sense of desolation that he would come and Lord M would not.

They entered in pairs according to protocol, and that same protocol had Viscount Palmerston hurriedly placed halfway down the table. If Melbourne had been present the steward would have seated him at the Queen’s left hand, according to her long-standing directive. Lord Palmerston had no such premier placement.

The ancient stone walls of Windsor kept its inhabitants cool even on the warmest of summer days, of which this was certainly one. Walking had proven uncomfortably warm, and while Victoria would have continued until she had circled the pond on the north garden walk her ladies had cried they were on the verge of fainting and her mother had retired with complaint of a sick headache as soon as they returned indoors. Thus, she found herself at loose ends for much of the day, the tedium enlivened only by the arrival of her charming cousin from Coburg.

Ernst, unlike his brother, was a likeable fellow and Victoria had quite enjoyed his company on past visits. This time he was alone, without need to act as buffer for his stern, socially graceless younger brother, and excelled at amusing the Queen’s attendants, sending the young girls into gales of laughter with much fan-flirting and batting of eyelashes.

After dinner, when the gentlemen had once again joined them and without the Duchess present to mandate participation in Whist, Victoria allowed her cousin and Miss Stanhope to carry the weight of entertaining the others. She thought, watching them, what a well-matched pair they would make and wondered whether his visit was connected to some woman.

When she grew bored watching their flirtation and determined she had no patience for either board games or the endless, pointless conversation about the latest fashions and which celebrated composer had a new piece, the Queen quietly stepped onto the terrace.

North Terrace in the Middle Ward overlooked the private, interior garden – the Queen’s Garden, it was named, redundantly, Victoria thought, for all she surveyed was hers. The random thought was one which she would have shared with Lord M, and he would have rewarded her with one of those little half-smirks which warmed his eyes and softened his angular features.

“Such a pretty place, to be so wasted save to look down on it from on high.”

Victoria glanced over her shoulder at the familiar voice, and recognized Palmerston’s tall figure approach. Moonlight glinting off his sandy blond hair made it appear silver.

“Not wasted, if the sight gives us pleasure,” Victoria replied.

“Wasted. Gardens are tactile things, to be experienced with all our sense, not merely stared at when we are feeling blue.” He sat on the edge of the balustrade, turning his back on the view to look at Victoria.

“’Feeling blue’, Lord Palmerston? Are you feeling blue?”

“Are you, ma’am? You look the very picture of mournful solitude, standing alone in the moonlight while your guests frolic inside. I’m surprised Nemours leaves you unattended.”

“I think his patience with me is gone. England has lost its appeal and he wishes to return to France so his vanity can be repaired.”

Palmerston laughed delightedly. “Ah, Victoria! You no more have a thought than you express it. William said that once, you know. ‘And yet…’”

“’And yet?’”

“I believe he meant that you are quite captivating, even when being refreshingly candid. No matter how much it might cause difficulties for your diplomatic service.”

“Not my foreign service, Lord Palmerston?” Victoria showed him a small, teasing smile, aware that their banter was close to what some might call flirting.

“Your _Foreign Service_ finds you as captivating as your First Minister, ma’am.” Palmerston lifted her hand and brushed it against his lips with a courtly bow of his head.

“Did you seek me out, or did you merely wish to gaze on our wasted garden?”

“I confess. I sought you out. I am sent, you see.” Victoria inhaled sharply and willed herself to remain calm.

“Lord M sent you? Does he have a message for me?”

Palmerston looked almost uncomfortable, Victoria thought, _as though he felt sorry for me_. He explained that as far as he knew Melbourne remained at Brocket Hall but in fact he was his wife’s emissary.

“Emily hopes I might be able to persuade you to intercede with William in the scheme she has of marrying him off.”

“Why would I do that?” Victoria demanded sharply. “I do not involve myself in the private lives of my government ministers. Unless they cause scandal or bring dishonor on the crown. You may tell Lady Palmerston so.”

He invited her to walk and when she took his arm he strolled with her out of view of the drawing room windows. The North Terrace ran the entire length of the Middle Ward and a great deal of it lay in shadows.

“We should go back,” Victoria said uncertainly when they’d ventured far enough that the lighted windows were no longer in view.

“Ma’am! Do you cast aspersions on my honor?” His deep voice was teasing and light but Victoria no longer felt in a mood to exchange repartee. She wanted only to end the evening uneventfully and retire to the peace and privacy of her bedchamber.

“Victoria, perhaps I can give you a different way of looking at Emily’s suggestion. A way that might, someday, give you some measure of happiness as well.”

“Lord Palmerston, you overstep. You use my name, and you allude to personal matters in a way which makes me doubt you have the respect for your sovereign you ought.”

Victoria removed her hand from his arm and increased her pace to put distance between them.

“You are very young, ma’am, and have been very much sheltered from the world, as you should be. May I have leave to tell you that life does not always work out as neatly as it should. Sometimes, to be happy, one must make compromises and take…alternate paths. If, in the end, we all reach a place where we can have some measure of happiness, why must there be only one way to get there?”

Victoria stopped in the moonlight and stared at him as he delivered his soliloquy. Her face was expressionless, impossible to read, and so still it might have been cast from marble.

“And this –“ she waved vaguely in his direction. “is intended to persuade me that I should intrude myself into Lord Melbourne’s decision to marry, or not?”

“Oh, ma’am,” Palmerston laughed easily. “you are there already, whether you intend it or not.”

They both looked up at the sound of footsteps on the flagstone terrace, coming nearer. Victoria knew before she knew, and fought the urge to run in that direction. Palmerston’s recognition came a second later.

“I was told I might find you out here,” Lord Melbourne said, kneeling to kiss the Queen’s hand. Victoria felt herself twitch in reaction and he released her fingers prematurely, thinking perhaps that she had meant to pull away when in fact she had wanted only to stroke the dark curls she saw bending before her.

“Her Majesty wanted air, and so I offered to escort her,” Palmerston said smoothly.

Melbourne tore his eyes away from the Queen’s. “How considerate of you,” he murmured abstractedly.

“You have returned from Brocket Hall, I see,” Victoria said, realizing as she spoke how ridiculous her statement was.

“I have,” Melbourne agreed, suppressing one of those small secret smiles meant for her alone, as though she endlessly amused him. “I hope I’ll be forgiven appearing in the Queen’s drawing room without invitation or announcement.”

“Why should you not? After all, you did not announce your intent to leave for Hatfield either. Have you come back to announce your plans to marry?”

Melbourne’s eyes narrowed momentarily as he looked over the Queen’s shoulder at his brother-in-law. Then he smiled once more, urbanely, his courtier’s face.

“No indeed. Must I? Perhaps first I should be informed of those plans.”

Palmerston chose that moment to excuse himself and retreated to the safety of the drawing room. Victoria merely looked away, unwilling to forfeit the zone of privacy they enjoyed, equally unwilling to prolong a painful conversation.

“Ma’am? Have you had a surfeit of night air, or will you walk with me?” Melbourne offered his arm and she laid her fingertips on it, turning to walk beside him back into the shadows.

“Emily has a notion that it is time for me to marry. I recall you found it amusing when she and Henry applied to you for permission to wed, and they were younger then than I am now.”

“That is why you never thought to mention it? Because I might find it _amusing_?” Victoria’s voice was sharp with hurt.

“I never thought to mention it because it is a non-issue. I do not intend to marry.”

“Even your dear friend Miss Eden? Of whom you are excessively fond?”

“Even her,” Melbourne agreed, some humor in his voice, but also unmistakable warmth. _For me or for her_? Victoria wondered.

“You write her regularly and you miss her a great deal, Emily said. Why would you not wish to marry someone of whom you’re fond, and with whom you get along so well?”

Victoria knew she now sounded only sad. Her anger had fled and all she felt was forlorn, lost knowing that what she wanted above all could never be. How could she think this idyll would continue indefinitely? Emily was right; they could never be together and he deserved so much more than to end up alone.

He tightened his arm, where her hand was, and laid his own on top of it.

“Surely you must know.” His rough voice was low, nearly a whisper. Victoria felt a lump in her throat and she resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder to judge how completely they were out of view of the windows.

“Because you still love your wife? The memory of your wife?” She could not resist reminding him what he had said that day, when she’d laid her heart and her pride at his feet and been rebuffed.

“Because I do indeed mate for life. Like the rooks, I had only one heart to give and I’m afraid it’s held by another.”

 _So close_ , Victoria thought. _If ever we are to get past that horrible awful day and move forward, he must say it. I cannot do so again._

The silence between them lengthened and grew heavy, so that the emotion was nearly palpable, but still he did not speak, would not declare himself. Victoria stopped walking, so he must do likewise. She turned her face up to his, searching his green eyes for a sign. They were so warm, so full of what he felt – _why will he not say it? Ask for me? Take me, here, now, in this moonlight, on this hot June night?_

He lifted a hand and carefully brushed back a strand of hair which had blown free onto her face. In doing so, he bent forward so she thought surely he would kiss her and her own lips involuntarily parted in anticipation.

“Lord Melbourne!”

He looked up and back at his name being called by an equerry who stood small in the distance, peering in their direction as if unable to recognize them with certainty.

Victoria’s hand had risen to meet his where it remained, his knuckles just brushing her cheek. Melbourne slowly guided hers to his lips.

“We must return, ma’am. I’m afraid our absence has been noticed and will soon be remarked upon.”

Victoria’s gaze dropped from his face, her own expression showing her disappointment that the moment had passed.

They sat together for the rest of the evening, Melbourne in the chair at her side which was kept for him. He told her of Brocket Hall, what condition the gardens were in, that his manager complained of tenants and a horse went lame and a leaking roof which must be repaired, and Victoria listened attentively, seeing it all in her mind’s eye.

“I have never been there as a guest,” she said carefully, avoiding that which must not be said. “It sounds lovely.”

“Then you must visit, ma’am. Brocket Hall would be honored to host Your Majesty and the Duchess and those of your Household you wish to bring.” Reminding her, of course, that there as anywhere she would be under constant surveillance. And yet, it was precious to him and so she wanted to see it, to know it as he did someday.

“If I were invited, I would very much like that, Lord M,” Victoria said softly, smiling up at him, her eyes lowered shyly.

“It’s no palace, and in fact its main aspect is rather unprepossessing. But the inside is, I think, surprisingly pleasant.” He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. “But then I am prejudiced. It’s my home and I love it.”

“I would love it because you do,” she said firmly, allowing her inflection to say what she could not.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the course of that summer Her Majesty the Queen, once described as being easily pleased and delighted by everything, was in a peevish state. Her snappishness and moody irritability wore on her lady attendants and they talked, wrote to friends, complained to their lords on visits home, whispered amongst themselves. Some attributed her recent ill humor to the weight of responsibility that had descended on her shoulders, while others blamed the unnaturalness of the life she led. The lightening of her workload which came with the Parliamentary recess did not seem to brighten her mood accordingly; if anything, those in closest proximity thought that the time of day she would have expected to meet with her prime minister her restlessness increased markedly. At the end of the day all speculation on the Queen ended one way: It's time she was married, and it was to that end Baron Stockmar was dispatched from Belgium.

**

Talk of Her Majesty was nothing new, and it reached Lord Melbourne's ears even when he might have preferred it not. He had, over the course of a lifetime, developed and well honed the ability to hear without listening, to respond so vaguely to matters he preferred to avoid that his reputation for indifference was well-established. Still, when it concerned the Queen, all his attempts to defect with wit could not entirely conceal the spark of interest ignited in his eyes each time he heard her name.

He had been able, with perfect propriety, to avoid daily audiences since that night on the terrace. And that was the point of reference his own mind insisted upon, even when he self-corrected in a dozen different ways. _After Parliament was prorogued_. _The evening I returned from Brocket Hall_. But instead, always _the night on the terrace._ And Melbourne would exercise every ounce of his considerable will to push that thought away.

The business of government continued, of course. There were dispatches from the Governor General of India, from Afghanistan and the far east. There was nothing Melbourne couldn't handle and in fact, a most energetic and ambitious Foreign Secretary would have preferred a lack of interference – or oversight. But the Queen had the right, and the duty, to be fully informed of what was done in her name, and he knew he would have to discuss at length – to provide the sort of context she depended upon instead of dry facts and columns of numbers – some of them before telling her he was leaving London for a time.

He had delayed, on one excuse and another, that audience, until he could ignore his duty no longer. Even some of his own ministers were repeating, with a great show of nonchalance and circumvention, the tittle tattle on her moods and vapors, the fits and starts which were beginning to draw unseemly attention. The word _unstable_ , used only in the negative – _No one's suggesting Her Majesty is unstable, Melbourne, but a word to the wise won't be amiss, before people begin talking in earnest_ , Duncannon had said over port one evening – persuaded him he would attend her on the morrow.

When he let himself into the quiet darkness of 39 South Street that night, Melbourne went to his library, loosening his cravat and throwing aside his coat before pouring. He threw himself into his favorite chair sideways, slinging legs over one arm without thinking, a posture he'd assumed at leisure since boyhood, and stared moodily into the depths of amber liquid.

 _They could not go on as they were_. _But was it 'they' or his own inner turmoil?_ Melbourne wondered, for the hundredth time. Did he imagine, with fancy borne on the wings of a secret hope he dared not speak, that her feelings remained, stronger, more true than he had once thought possible? Did the poised, newly mature young woman of twenty-one still carry in her heart the intense infatuation she had proclaimed two summers ago? And if she did, was it based more on habit, and familiarity and her own stubborn determination to not be thwarted, than it could ever be on something lasting and true?

The old arguments he made to himself, that he was too old, that she must make a State marriage, that the weight of the baggage he carried would be insurmountable, felt as frayed as a much-thumbed book. All that was left was the sure knowledge of what heartbreak would feel like, if he lowered his last barriers and allowed her into his heart. Which, he conceded, was a silly conceit, because she was there already, with roots so deep that to tear them loose would be his death.

**

When Lord Melbourne was announced, the Queen and her ladies were arrayed to advantage in the solarium, where all the windows and doors had been thrown open to admit any errant breeze. He paused in the doorway, nodding a dismissal to the page, and drank in the sight of her. Six days – _six paltry days! Six endless days!_ – had passed since they were last together, and he had forgotten how fresh and pretty, how dainty and feminine and _new_ she was. _Victoria!_ The name sang in his heart, the name he dared not use for the sake of decorum, the name he pronounced in his thoughts constantly.

"Lord Melbourne," she said coolly, or in a manner intended to be cool, except that she had never learned to dissemble. He dipped to his knee, taking the little hand that was offered and just brushing his lips against her soft skin, close enough so he could subtly inhale a wisp of her scent.

"Your Majesty," Melbourne said, his voice cracking on a lilt, and he couldn't keep from smiling, he knew his eyes were warm when he looked at her.

She murmured some vague sound of dismissal to her ladies and led him back into the stout walls of Windsor, to her Blue Closet, where they customarily met.

"You have been delinquent in your duty, Lord Melbourne. I think this country still needs a government, and a chief minister at its head, whether or not Parliament is in session. I don't believe I gave you leave to abandon us." She stood straight behind her desk, one hand laid on the back of her chair, and Melbourne was slightly startled by her razor-sharp tone and the authority in her voice.

"Your Majesty, my letters accompanied each day's dispatches. I believe you carried on quite well without me. There was no need for daily audience, in my judgment," he reminded her with careful courtesy.

Where once she would have taken the merest hint of his criticism to heart, she only flared up and snapped back imperiously.

"I believe it is _my judgement_ which determines such need."

Melbourne bowed his head only, and went to unlatch the first of the boxes.

"Today there is something to discuss. A letter from Sir William Hay Macnaghten, our principal agent in Afghanistan, argues in favor of annexation of Herat, in the western part of that country. May we look at it?"

The tense moment passed, to Melbourne's relief. She had asserted her authority and he had acquiesced with the grace of a courtier, having had no little practice managing her uncle's cantankerousness. He knew and appreciated all her good qualities more than most, but Melbourne sometimes thought of her as a half-tame tiger cub, delightful, gamboling, tame to the hand, yet capable of sudden lethality. Yet it had been his hand alone which could tame her, and as uncomfortable as the knowledge was, he sensed that it was as a man, more than a teacher or mentor, that he might bring her firmly to heel.

Melbourne understood, perhaps far better than she did, what fire burned in her veins. Victoria was a healthy young woman and nature had created her a passionate, sensual creature, splendidly full of life. She was doubtless unaware of the source of the bursts of energy which propelled her into action, the vague undercurrent of nervous irritation fueling her volatility, the general sense of dissatisfaction which explained her petulance.

"Some say the Great Game – what the French call _Le grand jeu_ \- began when Lord Ellenborough, the President of the Board of Control for India set Bentinck, to establish a new trade route to Bukhara…"

Lord Melbourne, in such a setting, was a natural teacher – as little as he liked speaking to the House, he had always savored this sort of individual instruction – and in Victoria he had the most avid of pupils. Now she locked her eyes firmly on him as he walked about, laying a hand on the great globe to spin it, painting colorful word-pictures men who otherwise would be mere lines in a textbook. He satisfied himself that he was adequately providing the context she depended upon to fully understand the complexities of Britain's interests in the middle east.

"Lord Auckland, since he replaced Bentinck, pushed for our presence in Afghanistan. We need that mountainous region as a buffer zone to keep Russia from moving south to capture a warm water port. Russia, not France, is our greatest threat to the hegemony we pursue – on Your Majesty's behalf. I have letters from India here which summarize the diplomatic climate of that country. Maharajah Ranjit Singh, The Lion of the Punjab, they call him – Auckland's sister went inland and met Singh, established quite the unorthodox friendship with him. I think you would find her journals most informative."

"Indeed?" Victoria asked icily, averting her eyes from the bound journal he clasped, amongst other contents he had removed from the second red leather box.

Melbourne was so caught up in his own animated discourse that he did not immediately note the change in her demeanor. When he did he – unwisely, he realized instantly – laughed a little.

"Ma'am, I offer you material which I think you would find far more instructive than the dry reports from the field you always complain are too hard to digest."

"Really, Lord Melbourne? You address your queen, and think I am – _what? too simple? too ill-educated?_ – to comprehend the reports of my own ministers? My own representatives abroad? Surely you forget yourself." Victoria rose abruptly, pushing her chair back so hard it hit the wall.

Melbourne barely suppressed his own sigh of annoyance.

"Ma'am, I think you misunderstand me. I only thought you might like a more colorful, less technical description of this man who will, in future, play a key role in the region. Or so those who know more of the Indian policies than I, opine."

"Let me see," she snapped, holding out her hand. He laid a colorfully-illustrated volume in her outstretched palm and watched her examine it skeptically. Her dark brows were still furrowed and he recognized all the signs of petulance with a storm brewing.

"I will leave that with you to study, or not, at your leisure, ma'am. I also came to tell you I will be absent from town for the next month."

Melbourne was already repacking his cases.

"You _what?_ " He glanced up, startled by her near-shout.

"I am merely going to Derby for a time, to Melbourne Hall. My estate has been sorely neglected of late, and Beauvale found it in a deplorable state. I must attend to some necessary matters." It was all true, merely fact on the surface, but Melbourne was uncomfortably aware of the prevarication underneath. _I've lost the ability to dissemble too, it seems, at least to her, even when it's more politic to do so_.

"Why? Why now?" Victoria demanded, and now he was startled to hear a plaintive tone. When he looked up she angrily brushed the back of her hand against her eyes.

Melbourne abandoned the cases and straightened. He had not intended to discuss matters better left alone, but confronted by that dear, piquant, shocked face and the unhappiness in her eyes, he spoke without considering.

"I think you must know why, ma'am." He met her gaze honestly, allowing her to find whatever she might seek in his eyes – _love, desire, need, crumbling reserve?_

"Is that why you've stayed away?" She asked bluntly. _Silly girl, darling girl – you should not speak so plain of those things which can not be spoken of_.

"In part, perhaps." Those blue eyes seemed to fix him in place, compel him. "Yes," he conceded. "I think it best for both of us if we take advantage of the summer recess to put some distance between us. We see far too much of each other. You must…look around you, without me…obstructing your vision."

"And what will I see, when I look around, Lord M?" Victoria was walking around the wide desk, slowly, advancing like some cat, all lethal grace, and Melbourne knew that if he was to retreat with dignity it must be now.

"You will…there are…I should…" he fumbled for words, and his thoughts were disjointed, refusing to align themselves into comprehensible form. She stood in front of him now, so closely that he could once again feel the warmth of her skin through his clothing and her own.

She laid a hand on his chest but lightly, for balance, and before he knew what she was about, she stood on tiptoes and put her lips against the corner of his mouth. Melbourne moved to turn his head away, to put distance between them without jostling her, but instead his own traitorous mouth found hers and he kissed her chastely, lips tightly closed, but still there was no mistaking the contact for other than what it was. When she didn't startle and pull away, when she leaned heavily into him instead, he lay careful hands on her hips to hold her back so she would not be frightened by the surging evidence of his need.

He told himself he meant to draw back, to stop what had begun but when she tentatively opened her lips he was lost, devouring her hungrily, still cautious, still restrained in deference to her innocence but pulling her sweet breath into his own mouth, exhaling into hers, prodding, tasting, drinking in all that she was.

The kiss ended finally, as all things must, and his breath was coming heavily, her own in rapid pants.

"And that is why I must leave," Melbourne said and her eyes widened involuntarily, as if in response to a slap rather than quiet, reluctant words.

"I was quite wanton and I – I am sorry, if I offended you, and all sense of what is right. Please…I am sorry. Do not leave on my account. Things will be as they were. I will never – I told you once, but this time I mean it. I will be good. Please…" she babbled nonsensically, pleading, her eyes flooding with tears and he couldn't bear it, could not withstand her humbling herself once again.

"Don't…please, ma'am, don't…I am quite flattered, truly."

"'Flattered?'" She repeated with a gasping cry. "I do not mean to flatter you! I –" and the Queen returned, turning away. "You have our permission to withdraw." The quiet dignity behind which she retreated was worst of all.

"Victoria," Melbourne said softly. "Look at me."

He followed her, and with exquisite gentleness laid a hand on her shoulder to turn her around.

"Let me go to Melbourne Hall. Take this month to consider, quite seriously and with an open mind, all the options available to you."

"I _have_ considered, and found them all wanting."

"You have _not_ considered any suitor seriously. Please, do so now. Consider everything, every consideration, every advantage and disadvantage. If any want to come, let them. You have been turning away every prince, every suitor, for the past two years because you are determined to prove your independence."

"To prove that I want no one but you!" Victoria's bald declaration made a small, almost rueful smile appear on Melbourne's face, even as his eyes were so serious as to be mournful.

"Then to prove that. Now…I ask you, to please spend the next month in careful review of all possibilities. Because you have nothing left to prove."

"Do you mean –" Melbourne saw the joy leap in her eyes, and he knew it was returned in his heart.

"I mean that, in a month, we will begin again. I am your friend and your faithful servant and nothing will ever change that."

"I love you, I adore you, and nothing will ever change _that_. Are you sure you don't go away in hope that I will decide to marry some German prince, some Dutch boy, some…. someone, so that you are free to do as you wish?"

"What I wish, ma'am, all I wish, is to serve you until the end of my days."

"Do you love me?" Once more he was surprised by her boldness, and his mouth quirked in a smile.

"It is quite unmaidenly to ask such a thing, ma'am. It is also unnecessary. I think you know the answer to that." He took both her hands in his then, and raised them to his lips, kissing first one, then the other.

"And if I promise to do as you ask – not question whether I wish to marry anyone else, for I will not, but as you say consider all the advantages and disadvantages of my state – then when you return will you – can we -?

"We will begin again. My ministry can not last forever. The Conservatives grow stronger every day and the country will be ready for a change at the next General Election. I can't for the life of me understand why you would want a man of my age, and with all the baggage I carry, the weight of the scandals, the gossip, but…I can no longer deny how I feel. I never could, and I think you were never convinced."

"I was convinced that you would not have me, whatever the reason. But now…"

"No promises, ma'am. I would not hold you to them. Much can change in a month."

"Nothing will change here. Will you – will you kiss me again before you go? Properly kiss me?"

And he did.


	6. Chapter 6

_Melbourne Hall, Derbyshire_

After Lord M left her presence – he would not permit her to walk with him down the corridor, down the main stairway, out through the formal entrance to Windsor, refused her plea to allow her to accompany him past her own guarded door – Victoria had found herself depleted. The energy drained from her so she felt quite boneless and wanted nothing less than to rejoin her ladies, listen to their chirping mindless prattle, sit through an interminable dinner and linger long over board games or Mama's endless whist.

She longed for the privacy of her bedchamber, freedom from corsets and skirts and the need to maintain decorum and a guarded demeanor, hungered to be alone with her thoughts and the wonderful, sparkling, tantalizing promise of what was to come. Standing as still as a statute, stroking her lip with the pad of her finger, and smiling at nothing was how Lady Portman found her sometime later.

"Ma'am, do you wish to join – _ma'am?"_ Victoria, pulled unwillingly out of reverie, turned a face to the Viscountess that was still soft, still unmissably wearing the expression of a girl in love, if she but knew it.

Emma Portman had seen that look on her queen's face too many times to count, and she knew well to whom it was directed. She suppressed a sigh of annoyance.

"Yes, Emma?" Victoria said brightly, composing her features, and that was that until much later.

Victoria went over the court calendar with the Lord Chamberlain and Baroness Lehzen, while Viscountess Portman hovered nearby. It was good, Victoria thought, to have something so necessary and mundane to occupy one's mind…if one couldn't be alone with one's thoughts. Yet, try as she might to attend, she found herself merely nodding blankly as the voices droned on. At one point Lady Portman leaned over her shoulder, and gently interrupted. "Surely Your Majesty meant a _tea_ for the bishops' wives, not a _dinner_?" Victoria blinked and nodded agreement. Church wives were the most tedious of guests, she had often complained, and smiled her gratitude to Emma for averting disaster – or at least intolerable boredom. Cheesemakers, a prominent London banker to whom Sir Robert wished her to show especial favor by inviting him to a Court function.

Lord Palmerston would call on her the following morning to go over the new ambassadors who would present their credentials and submit letters of introduction from their sovereigns. She must give audience to these and of course there must be a dinner and a formal evening reception. Victoria made note to talk to Palmerston about the urgency, for surely it was most suitable that the Prime Minister be present. Besides, she _wanted_ him at her side. _Where he belongs, where he always is at such State occasions,_ Victoria thought, annoyed that his foreign secretary would think to hold such an important event while the head of his government was gone.

And the list of those officers who would receive, from her hand, commendations for their bravery in battle, recognition of wounds received, and a reading of posthumous awards for their fallen comrades. Victoria scanned the list briefly. The names meant nothing but their ages and directions gave some indication of the magnitude of the loss of life in the past months alone, despite the assurances that eastern affairs were proceeding apace. Victoria's gaze fell on one familiar name – _George Eden_. Lord Auckland, her Governor-General, but more unsettling, the brother of the woman they thought to marry Lord M. _We'll see about_ that _, Lady Palmerston_.

After approving the various events which would be published in the _Gazette,_ in the Court Circular, Victoria gave over the planning to the Lord Chamberlain, to the Royal Steward and the Chief Usher.

And then finally, finally it was time to retire. Early, perhaps, and if her maids of honor exchanged surprised glances they were pleased enough to be off duty and left to their own devices. Victoria permitted herself to be undressed, keeping her fingers folded over a small gold-edged object she had kept in her pocket all day, as she did most days.

When her dressers had departed Victoria sank down on her bed and pulled the down coverlet over her, craving the weight of it over her limbs like…like an embrace. And that thought made her face go warm, even in the privacy of her darkened bedchamber.

 _He kissed me. I reached for him, 'tis true, but he returned my kiss and it was sweeter even than I imagined. He held me so carefully, as though I were a precious thing, precious to him. He loves me!_ The wonder of it made her shiver, goosebumps forming on her skin despite the warm summer evening. Victoria stretched out her arm, ran her hand, her fingertips, over the cool expanse of empty bed beside her and thought that someday it would not be empty.

Victoria knew little of what might transpire in a marriage bed, and the notion of sharing her own with any man seemed so foreign a concept, such an alien thought, that her mind could not entirely grasp it. Surely it would be awkward, embarrassing in the extreme, at least until one grew accustomed?

But then she imagined having him kiss her again, many kisses, with no fear of interruption, imagined having the freedom to touch him as she had so often desired. Touch his beautiful curling hair, run her fingers over his lips, trace his fine profile.

 _What else would they do, in their marriage bed?_ Surely, whatever it was, if it was with _him_ it would not be frightening, for he would never do anything that caused her alarm. _I have always felt so safe with Lord M, and that would not change if we were married._ It was phrased as a question in her mind, but any doubt evaporated as she allowed herself to imagine pillowing her head on his chest, feeling his arm around her shoulders. _Would he be unclothed?_ Victoria giggled at the silliness of a thought. _Of course, he would – gentlemen did not rise from sleep fully clothed, wearing a stiff collar and intricately knotted cravat._

She had felt his firm chest when she leaned into him, had felt his hands on her back and her skin had grown prickly and hot where his fingers had touched her. She had been vaguely aware of wanting him to continue, had wanted to press herself against him so that they merged and became one, had wanted…something she could not put a name to, yet craved without knowing.

Victoria decided that whatever might transpire after a vow of marriage, with him, and him alone, it could not be other than very pleasant. She laid the small oval portrait she clutched carefully on the bedside table, and then hugged herself, rolling over and pressing her legs tightly together, imagining it was his arms around her. In the darkest part of the night, caught up in dreams she would not remember, her hand would drop to that hot secret place and she would gently rock her hips back and forth until she brought herself to a precipice she did not want to reach alone.

**

The railroad which ran from Euston Square, London, to Curzon Street, Birmingham had reduced a journey of two full days to a matter of hours. Viscount Melbourne would have foregone the expense of a private coach, but in the end stipulated to the wisdom of avoiding what would have been the unfortunate nonstop petitions from every fellow-traveler with something to say to the Head of Government. He traveled alone with his valet and a young clerk who served as his second secretary, a fellow who was the son of long-time tenants. Melbourne had left his primary secretary, his nephew William Cowper, behind, to bring the daily dispatches to the Queen and address any questions she would have.

Melbourne Hall had never been _home_ , in the same sense that Brocket Hall held that place in his heart. The great stone pile in Derbyshire had been built and rebuilt by several of Peniston Lamb's forebears, and William Lamb's lack of attachment to his seat most probably reflected his feelings towards his mother's husband. Still, it was part of the name and the title and, entailed, would pass to Frederick on his death since he would leave no heir.

His property manager had met him at the train station, and on the drive back regaled him with a lengthy recitation of every deficiency demanding attention…and money. The latter, Melbourne thought ruefully, was in woefully short supply and they would have to make do with what he could manage in the way of repairs.

Frederick would arrive the next day and there would be time enough then to make a comprehensive list of everything demanding some solution. Melbourne had every intention of turning the place over to his younger brother when Fred retired from the diplomatic service, and would be pleased to cede whatever nominal authority he had in the eyes of the tenants. A tour would be in order, he knew – the locals threw their enthusiastic support behind one of their own, and freely exercised boasting rights as the home of their Prime Minister.

And then finally, finally it was time to retire. He went into the library – Peniston's library, and before him the Cokes' – and called for port, and then to be left in peace.

Since he had left the Queen's presence, Melbourne had resisted examining his own conduct at length, biding his time until he could do so in something approaching calm objectivity. As outrageous as his own behavior had been – for he could not fault her, a young girl who trusted him implicitly to do what was right – he could not bring himself to regret it. No, he considered, it was preordained, inevitable, even long overdue. And that spurious reasoning made him nearly ill with shame.

He had kissed her, and that was inappropriate, but it was hardly the most grievous of his offenses. No, what he had done was give her hope, allow her to think that her silly schoolgirl infatuation could ever become more. Now he must find a way to undo the damage he'd done, disentangle them both from this mess of his own creation, gently, so that he did not cause her tender feelings more injury than he already had.

Because of course it was absurd that they could ever be together, not in the way she imagined, in the throes of girlish first love. They were right after all, those who had said the many hours they spent together, alone, for the past three years would attach the heart and mind of a lonely, impressionable young girl. He hadn't meant it, of course – Melbourne acquitted himself at least of that. He had felt for her only the proper feelings of a friend, a mentor, a teacher, a father even, but should have tried harder, done more, to keep her at arm's length. _Arms' length,_ he mocked himself cruelly – _the only arm's length you held her at was to keep her from your own raging cock_. Well, the damage was done and it could have been worse. Now he had only to convince her that what she thought she had heard in his words was not – was not – his mind stuttered, and slowed to a crawl.

_What rot, William! What utter rot!_

Melbourne startled so that liquor splashed from the glass in his hand. The voice was so loud in his ear he turned around, looking over his shoulder, peering into the gloom of a long midsummer dusk. He knew that voice anywhere, the Devonshire drawl, the pert mocking tone and even the undeniable contemptuous affection.

He drank off what was in his glass and poured more, drank that down too and then set his glass aside.

_You have not changed. Always peace at any price, never willing to fight for what you want. Haven't you learned yet?_

Caro. Of course, Caro, who else talked that way, who else knew him that well? _What nonsense! Now I hear specters, and instead of some shuffling shade of one of the old man's ancestors, I hear my dead wife._

Melbourne laughed out loud, a hearty, merry sound in the stillness. He rose and walked about, stretching, still stiff from sitting motionless in the rail coach. He rubbed both hands over his face roughly, ruffled his hair.

_You've lived six decades without once being entirely happy. What do you have to lose?_

_You love the girl. You want the girl in your bed. Once, William, for me if not for yourself, for once in your life take what you want, reach out with both hands and grab and hold on and do not let go. Be reckless, be wild, pursue her like I pursued_ him _. Be firm, lose yourself in passion and in love. Like you never did with me. Like you've always been afraid to do._

He did not belief in spirits, in an afterlife or in hauntings, and all those were prerequisites to hearing one's dead wife. Therefore, these thoughts must come from within. Melbourne turned over that idea in his mind.

Of course, he loved her. Was _in love_ with her, no matter how foolish and pathetic and even cliché it made him, a man of his years head-over-heels for a chit of twenty-one. But what changed the equation, what took it out of the realm of theatre, was that she was no dancer or actress who could be forgiven for using what advantage nature had given her to ply her charms on a besotted older man. She was _the Queen of England_. She had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Therefore, if she said she loved him and had been consistent in that protestation for nearly two years, _res ipsa loquitur_. Any attempt to retreat now would be, as this figment of imagination couched in Caro's distinctive voice would likely call it, cowardice. And for what? Spare himself the possibilty of heartbreak in exchange for the certainty?

 _"You love her and she loves you. What are you going to do about_ that _, William Lamb?_ "

_ Caroline Lamb _


	7. Chapter 7

The sun at midafternoon was almost too bright, but as soon as he stepped into the enveloping cool, dim interior of Windsor those ancient walls, eternal, unchanging, gave Lord Melbourne the impression of stepping into a cool oasis set apart from the everyday world.

He ran lightly up the stairs, following the same path his feet had trod countless times before. Only the faint roiling in his gut, the tingle of anticipatory anxiety, made this time feel different. His resolve, quickened a hundred miles away, hardened on the train ride, now threatened to wobble once more. In the next few minutes he would roll the dice, if he dared. Or not…

There was no need to show him to his destination – the Queen always received him in her private study, the Blue Closet. A royal footman outside the door would have announced him, but the space was empty. Melbourne, momentarily nonplussed only because he had screwed up his courage for this moment, hesitated, then stepped within and politely requested that Her Majesty be informed of his arrival. _She is in her private garden, Your Lordship, with her guests. Would you like to join them there?_ No, he decided, he would not. He wished to see her alone, away from the prying eyes of others, with his only excuse that of the Prime Minister's right to private audience spared them the constant presence of her attendants.

While Melbourne waited he paced, hands clasped behind his back, in the intimate private space where they had met so many times, shared so many talks, learned to trust, like, value and love one another. These four walls, that desk, the small settee, the dog's cushion beneath the window – suddenly it all seemed impossibly, inexpressibly dear.

There had been no road to Damascus, only the sarcastic, nagging, cajoling, loving voice of his dead wife, after the first time a near-constant intruder in his thoughts, until he began talking back in his mind, disputing, arguing, warning and finally, accepting. Of course Caro was merely the symbol of that part of his own nature unhampered by caution, by rationality and cynicism and learned pessimism, and a strong vein of characterological emotional reserve. Where Caroline had suffered from emotional excess and disinhibition, William had been her opposite, cool and logical and seemingly incapable of the unthinking passion she equated with love.  Yet love her he had, whether in spite of or, as he had once been accused, because of her flaws. So it was only fitting that it was symbolically at least Caro, the first woman he loved, who would push him into the arms of the last.

Once those scales fell, what seemed like a gradual awakening soon reached fever pitch. Her letters, so carefully, fondly written, stirred an odd sense of foreboding, as though he was at risk of losing her only after finally understanding what he must do. And so, two weeks after leaving Windsor, two weeks before he was expected to return, Melbourne left brother and nephews, much work undone, and an estate poorly managed, and fled back to London. To _her_. To Victoria.

**

Victoria sat with a fresh sheet of cold-pressed paper, pen1 in hand. She had written to him daily, apprising him of her daily schedule, what people she met with and which events transpired, struggling to find enough to say that would be worthy of his interest. She wanted him to be proud of her, that was a given which did not bear examination. She also wanted him to see her as an adult, a woman fully capable of making the most momentous decision of her life, and not a moonstruck girl who could be expected, with time, to outgrow _infatuation_. Victoria sometimes was conscious of a deep vein of something almost like anger towards Lord M. She did not doubt the depth of her feelings for him, not for one moment – how could she when they informed her every thought and action? All the same, she had proclaimed those feelings two full years ago, a year after they first met, and always he held her off, prevaricated, said one thing in words and an entirely other thing with burning looks, with cryptic statements which could mean anything at all, or nothing.

The anger felt deeply wrong, even dangerous, as though by acknowledging it she risked even the slim thread of regard that ran between them. And yet – and yet – her pride had been scorched severely by his early rejection and while soothed over time by his careful handling, never fully recovered. That small spark of hope never fully extinguished, kept alive by the look in his eyes when he returned to her less than a day after he sent her away from Brocket Hall, had burst into flame when he said what he had that last night. But what had he really said? More soft words which might mean everything, or nothing. _  
"I think you know what I mean,"_ and _"I think you know the answer to that,"_ and _"Much can change in a month."_ But what had he really, truly said? Not "I love you," nor "I will marry you." Only more of his evasions and aphorisms. _But he kissed he! No man could kiss a woman so, if he did not love her._ It was the girl in Victoria who protested; the woman, her mother's daughter, scoffed. Men did that, and more, all the time without any intention of love or marriage.

Then she knew what she would write, what serious turn of topic had been giving her much to ponder since the military reception and her long conversation with that very unorthodox, outspoken captain whose wounded arm did not prevent him from flirting outrageously, almost mockingly, and then addressing such words to her, that she was left speechless, more full of questions and even doubt, than she could resolve unaided.

_"We have received the most startling intelligence from an unusual source, to the effect that by the time Brigadier Shelton reached Jellalabad with a brigade to relieve Cotton's force, the Army already knew that Afghanistan could neither be conquered nor held. The Duke of W- was present when I received this information and did not refute its integrity. Yet my Uncle King was receiving reports daily that our troops were welcomed by the local population. Akbar Khan refused our overtures and was plotting retaliation. Shah Soojah, whom we supported, was universally despised by his own people, and British interference was seen as an invasion force. We wish to understand why the tribal forces routing our soldiers were described in official reports as a "parcel of ragamuffins" when within the ranks our men considered them the most disciplined, ferocious fighters on the field. In short, Lord M, there seems to be a great deal of discrepancy between what the Army knew then, and certainly knows now, and what my Uncle King and myself have been told. I have invited Captain Cameron to return to the Palace for private audience, to learn more of his own experiences and that of his fellows in the recent fighting to dislodge the insurgents. He assures me he does not speak for General Nott, a commander who he praises most highly, but assures me that the General has informed our envoys on many occasions of the futility of our presence there._

_I look forward to your return and wise counsel for many reasons, in no small part to assist me in understanding more of this strange, inhospitable land where so many of our subjects have been asked to bleed and die."_

There, she thought with satisfaction, he will see I am a woman and a capable sovereign, desirous of having the affectionate support of a husband and not the guiding hand of a teacher or mentor. She lifted the nub of her pen and considered the sanctity of the royal pouch, the trustworthy discretion of the courier who would carry her letter to Derbyshire. Then she added a final line above her signature.

_Sent with our love and most fond regards,_

_Yours, Victoria_

_VR”_

**

Lord Melbourne had no particular fondness for Melbourne Hall. It was the family seat, entailed, attached to the name and the title, and provided a moderate income, but he knew he had not given it the care it deserved. He had not dissembled to the Queen when he cited long-ignored demands for his presence. Brocket Hall would always be _home_ , in a way that the larger more ancient Hall was not, yet he could not let the place fall to rack and ruin.

Fred journeyed down to join him, bringing along two of Emily's sons. George was a man in his thirties, no longer a boy by any definition, satisfactorily married and with a full nursery. Charles, the youngest, was twenty-five, spoiled by his mother and sisters. A household of bachelors for the duration of their stay, they found in each other congenial companions and soon reverted to the habits of adolescents left without supervision.

A tour of the property highlighted the most grievous deficiencies and, with a work crew of strapping village lads, the Lambs went out each morning to tackle fallen tree limbs, repair fencing and on one memorable occasion, reshingle the pitched roof of an outbuilding. Stripped to the waist under a hot midsummer sun, well-supplied with hard cider and cold beer, provisioned by stout, healthy girls bearing thick slabs of ham on fresh-baked bread, they worked and laughed and gossiped, engaged in the sort of horseplay typical to males out from under female supervision, and Melbourne found the hours of each day passed rapidly enough without undue rumination.

By nightfall they were all tired, their energy spent, and the older and younger pair of brothers would play against each other in billiards or gamble for vowels which would be later burned by general agreement, even wager for absurd stakes, the more outlandish the better liked. Melbourne found he quite enjoyed indulging his boyish side, with his brother and nephews only to bear witness. He noticed that he felt younger, more enlivened, than he had in a good long while and attributed it to the hard physical labor and camaraderie. That, and the physical longing which had reawakened and seemed to dominate as it had not since he was a youth.

The country nights were dark and silent for those gentlemen compared to the streets of London and most nights Melbourne found himself abed by midnight. Then Caro's insistent voice would nudge and nag and seduce him with all those thoughts he had never before permitted. Once those thoughts were unleashed all memory of his late wife vanished and there was only one image that made him burn. _Thought_ , deliberate full-fledged cognition, fled too and in its place sensation, imaginary sensation…what her skin would feel like under his hands, how her firm young breasts would lay in his palm. His senses were alight then and not easily subdued and when he finally relinquished the last bit of resistance, the floodgates in his mind opened to the most lascivious of fantasies. She would be hot-blooded, he knew, and once awakened would be eager for what he could show her, what he could do, what mysteries he could unlock for her. He saw the smooth rounded flesh of her haunches, raised and eager for his hand, imagined how her sex would feel, quivering and wet and ready for him, thoughts which once would have horrified him, though they lingered somewhere beneath the surface all along. And he knew that, once committed, he could not retreat, could only go forward, toward damnation or salvation. Only when he had found relief and had exhausted those thoughts, did the more tender longings come forward once more, and he would call up the way in which she looked at him, unaware, her eyes alight with unabashed adoration, clinging to his every word, the manner in which her eyes would search for him in a crowd, even as she performed her part with perfect dignity, seeking reassurance, locking onto his for a moment of silent communion that seemed to center and balance her in a way nothing else did. That, he could give her. That, he would always give her. His presence, his strength, his devotion.

Will Cowper's quick-scrawled missive was nothing more than a brief outline of the events of the week, written hurriedly, it was clear, on his way to that evening reception the queen was holding. Irreverent as young Will was, Melbourne considered him a good, trustworthy boy – man, at twenty-five, but boy still for an uncle who had dandled him on his knee. Will shared Melbourne's own unforced charm and ability to attract feminine admirers, and had entangled himself in more than one affair of the heart which might have resulted in a trip to the altar neither family approved. No prude himself, Melbourne had once counseled him to confine his amorous pursuits to young ladies of a certain station, and not well-bred girls who would expect a betrothal.

Will's pleasant manner, so reminiscent of his uncle's, and his gentle wit, made him an early favorite at Court. After a few abortive attempts to persuade Victoria to accept one or another delegate on his behalf, Melbourne was pleased enough to see the easy friendship between his nephew and the Queen. It had reassured him on many levels, some acknowledged, some not, that if he could not be there, or the Queen should be squired about by some young man of her own age, it would be his nephew and not someone less trusted. Emily, of course, preened herself on having two children well-established at court, in the Queen's retinue, in addition to her brother's well-known favor from the sovereign.

Although they were on terms of family intimacy, Melbourne could not quite like the casual irreverence of Will's closing lines, assuring his uncle that he would waltz with the queen to the exclusion of any foreign prince who might think to stake a claim. _I will defend our interests well, Uncle, have no fear. Perhaps in the end I will even succumb to Mother's ambition and yours, and make a good match that will surprise you all._

Thus it was no one thing – hot restless nights, that insistent voice in his head prompting an epiphany of sorts, letters from London – but all of them, together with the most unlikely nudge of all, a sudden inchoate sense of urgency, which prompted a sudden decision to return and protect what he had so lately come to realize was his to lose.

**

The conversation, as befit any taking place in a garden enclosed by fragrant arbors and accompanied by the musical tones of a fountain, was not of war, of bloodshed and strategy and politics. Instead, Captain Cameron and two other officers, flirted and teased outrageously, sending the Queen and her maids-of-honor into peals of laughter at this military gallantry. Only an off-hand remark by the extraordinarily tall and, one must admit, handsome Captain startled the Queen into sudden sobriety.

"You will return? I don't understand, I thought you told me you don't believe in the war there. You said even your General has no belief we can win."

"Ah, but ma'am, we don't fight for that god-forsaken country, nor for whatever lofty ideals the politicos spout in their pretty speeches." Cameron had an Irish brogue, but not of the lower orders, so thick as to be nearly incomprehensible. Victoria thought his lilting accents were rather charming, and lent another layer of appeal to his startlingly irreverent manner of speech. He said nothing improper precisely, but he spoke as though to a sentient being capable of understanding what he said when he was serious…and to a pretty girl, not a Queen, when he was sportive. She had never encountered anyone else quite like him, so completely devoid of the rather stilted, formal manner considered suitable for courtiers, and yet clearly a gentleman, nobly born.

"Then what do you fight for? Risk injury and death? If not for a cause you believe in?" Victoria frowned, puzzled, trying to understand whether he spoke in jest or sincerely.

"Any man on the front lines who tells you he fights for a cause is a liar…ma'am," Cameron said, showing her that lazy smile, almost a sneer except not unkind, seemingly mocking himself and the world rather than her. "We fight for each other, no more, no less. Every man back there in my platoon is my brother, not only Danny. And of course, we fight for you."

"For me?" Victoria stuttered, nearly certain he toyed with her.

"Ma'am, every man charges into enemy fire with your name on his lips. And many die with it there, too. I always thought it was foolish – what I yell in a fight is not fit for your ears, but it is not your name." And now he did smirk, throwing back that long hair, his eyes alight with laughter. "Now I understand it. You see, before I never thought you were real. Now…I won't forget."

Victoria was struck more by the image his words conjured, than by the levity of he seemingly intended. If _they_ never thought _she_ was real, she had never given a thought to the fact that _they_ were real either, those long lists of names of the fallen they brought her. Now she could not put aside her new knowledge. Each decision made on her behalf, to wage war in a foreign land, for the expansion of an empire that bore her name, for the profits of the East India Company and their banker-partners, as this Captain so casually said, she would never again scan a list of names Lord M handed her without remembering she had met one of these flesh-and-blood men, with his own wound bound up in a quite dashing sling, and know that these were real live men who died calling her name.

A footman bent over and murmured his message near the Queen's ear. Victoria's mind cleared in an instant. She looked to her guests, hesitating only a moment. Then she rose.

"Charlotte, Fanny, please ask for refreshments to be brought. Captain Cameron, Captain Murphy, Lord Fellowes, I must leave you now." Her maids curtsied and the officers bowed stiffly. Only Cameron reached for her hand, and with a courtier's grace she had not expected from one of his rough, careless demeanor, kissed it as might any who frequented her drawing room.

"Ma'am, if I do not see you before we go back, I don't ask you to remember me – that would be audacious, even from a Dublin boy – but encourage your ministers to think hard about the decisions they make, and whose blood stains all that bullion flowing into your Treasury."

From anyone else the speech would have been an unthinkable faux pas, but Victoria found it refreshingly frank and not at all hostile.

"Captain, go with God and be assured we will indeed remember you, and your words. They will inform our interest in military matters, as more than mere _policy_." Victoria gently withdrew her hand and went swiftly inside without looking back.

**

Victoria waved off the footman who accompanied her. Her hand was trembling when it turned the handle on the French door overlooking the small private garden where she had so recently sat unaware.

The Blue Closet was a small room, scarcely twelve by twenty feet, and she could have covered the length easily in several hasty steps. Instead she only closed the door behind her.

Lord Melbourne stood across from her, hands clasped behind his back, in the patient attentive pose required of any courtier attending the queen, where they might be required to stand for hours on end. He looked tanned, she thought, and well, as though he had spent time outdoors and it agreed with him, erasing the cares of office. He lifted his head and returned her stare, the merest hint of a smile softening the line of his mouth.

"Lord M," she said, breaking the silence. "You have returned early."

"Indeed, ma'am. I come without prior invitation." His words were a near-replay of their last conversation and Victoria wondered suddenly if they must always re-enact the same scenes, as though performing a dance – move forward, retreat, separate and come together again. Always stiffly, never making progress.

"You know you need no invitation," Victoria said, almost impatiently, eager to break the impasse.

Melbourne stepped forward with his usual elegant, contained movements. When he stood in front of her she held out her hand uncertainly, anticipating he would greet her as usual, dropping smoothly to one knee. He did not disappoint, doing just that, and despite the sudden jolt of her heart when she felt his lips graze her knuckles, Victoria was aware of a sudden flash of something less than undiluted pleasure.

He rose, keeping hold of her hand, and met her eyes. "May I kiss Your Majesty…properly?" He asked, his lips twisting into a smile, his eyes watchful, measuring. Before she could respond, so swiftly that it startled her, Melbourne drew her toward him and put his hands carefully on her back, palms down. He did not compel or overwhelm her as she secretly craved, but he did clasp her to his chest and kiss her mouth, and that was enough. Victoria near-swooned into his embrace, and her arms went around him. His mouth still pressed to hers, she felt a sudden shock when his hand dropped lower, pressing her more firmly against him. She felt…something, something hard and firm even through the bulk of her petticoats and instinct told her what it was and the power it held. Her hips swayed against him and he moaned, the sound coming from deep in his throat. Then he was no longer careful, and he pushed against her hard, rocking his own hips so she could feel the hard insistence of _him_ grinding against her. His mouth ran down her neck, hot and hungry, biting and sucking, and Victoria felt a shiver surge through her, some hunger, some craving awakened. When his lips reached the hollow of her shoulder she held her breath, wanting him not to stop, never to stop, and then she felt his fingers at her bodice, at the low frilled neckline of her gown, and what must be his tongue, rough and warm, laving over the slope of her breast, seeking, she knew, her nipple, and she threw back her head, arched her neck to offer herself to him.

"We had better stop now," he said gruffly, pulling his head back with a grimace as though in pain.

Unthinking, suddenly bereft and emboldened, Victoria reached out her hand and found him instinctively. He laughed, but hoarsely, and drew it away before she could know what she'd found.

"Does this mean…you love me? You will marry me?" She asked, and she was frightened by having to ask, frightened of what the answer might be.

"Yes, Victoria. This means I love you, and will marry you, if you will have me."

 


	8. Chapter 8

In his arms she'd felt like he always imagined she would. The unabashed adoration he so often saw in her eyes, that fed his troubled soul like nectar, translated into pliable warmth and her body molded itself into his so perfectly that even the sense memory made him painfully hard. She would fit him perfectly, embrace him fully, and he would finally, finally, after a lifetime of longing, feel what it was like to come home to that place he was meant to be.

Melbourne knew he could have taken her there on the sofa, or could have led her by the hand into the bedchamber which lay so enticingly close, behind a single door. He knew it would happen if he let it, sooner rather than later, for Victoria was clearly made for the act of love. She had been so hot from his touch he had felt the gentle tremors wracking her small frame and he could well imagine how slick and warm she would have felt at her core, spreading to welcome him.

 _But then what? What in God's name were you thinking?_ When he was with her Melbourne's heart and loins ruled. He loved her more completely than he'd ever imagined possible from his essentially cool nature, and he wanted her sexually with such throbbing urgency it was physically painful. The improbability of _that_ did not escape him – where most men his age, if they were honest, feared diminution of their capacity he found himself semi-erect nearly all the time, now that those carefully constructed barriers had been breached. The dull ache in his perpetually responsive organ told of a youth's evergreen readiness, not a man of sixty past that time when reason was held hostage below the waist.

Absent Caro's voice urging him on, his own familiar inner voice returned. Melbourne had once been described as an elegant anachronism, harking back to an era when the unique dichotomy of his dual nature, romantic idealism and secular cynicism perpetually at war in his mind, perfectly echoed that of his world at large. Even then William Lamb had preferred the role of nonparticipant observer, surrounded by society but standing apart, able to recognize the foibles and absurd excesses of his peers and see them as cautionary tales.

Caro had been his opposite in every way, utterly disinhibited, sensation-seeking and as hungry for attention and notoriety as he was averse to those things. Emotional dysregulation defined her passionate nature, and for Caro everything was black or white, people were either good or evil, friends or foes. She could not bear the merest hint of rejection or abandonment, and what she defined as abandonment her husband had viewed as strategic retreat from the emotional storms which could burst forth like lightning from a clear sky. Caro's excesses had only intensified William's tendency to withdraw. Her erratic absolutism – a best friend one day would become archenemy the next, before the pendulum swung back and she effected a touching reconciliation – was increasingly frustrated by her husband's need to consider all sides of every issue at such length he would make no commitment at all.

Melbourne had often thought how poorly cast he was in the role of partisan politician. He was never happier than when free to immerse himself in arcane philosophies and sparkling sophistry in the company of intellectual equals, those long dinners at Brooks' or the Reform Club, Holland House _salons_ and Caroline Norton's drawing room.

It was Mrs. Norton with her pithy, biting wit, who after herself behaving badly, throwing herself at his feet in front of gawking onlookers at Downing Street, accused him of being drawn to women like herself, strong, unorthodox nonconformists - not in spite of those traits but because of them. He had found enough truth in the observation to be stung by it. Caro, he had loved once, when she was a fey tomboy who looked at him as though he were her entire light and dependence; for all those who came after, he had only the mildest affection, never again willing to give his heart, only to watch the gradual destruction of all that had once been good.

Victoria did not know how terribly wrong things could go, once they started to unravel. It mattered little what two people felt in their hearts when the world began picking away with dirty hands at their bond. If that had happened once, with two well-matched young people who married for love and had the approbation of family and society, how much worse would it be and how much sooner, with a mésalliance such as the one he had so rashly contemplated?

Try as he might, turning it this way and that in his mind, Melbourne could see not a single path for them which did not lead to ruin. If all went well – if there was no outcry, if the crude pamphleteers and vile whisperers did not throw mud on him, mud which would stick to his pure, his glorious, his perfect Victoria – then they might have a short time, a year, two, even five, of something like happiness. Then she would be twenty-five or thirty, at the very pinnacle of womanhood, and he would be rapidly aging, infirmities creeping up, impotence, illness. No matter how steadfast she was, no matter how uncritical and devoted, _he would know_ , would see himself for what he was becoming and would hate himself and hate her for bearing witness.

And if, as was more likely, those who made trouble for trouble's sake, who published their cartoons mocking the mighty, who would eye him with some mix of lewd admiration and contempt, raised an uproar, he would be forced once again to endure the ridicule of the masses, would have his name linked once again with Caro and the poet, would have his private words made public – those damned Branden letters, and then Mrs. Norton threatening to publish her own accounts of their trysts – and there would be no way to spare himself or Victoria from hearing it all. He would see the light of adoration dim in her eyes, would see her ardor cool and that silvery pealing laughter grow silent.

"Lord M?" Melbourne sat up at once when he heard her call him, already preparing to rise. He distractedly ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed his face with his hands, knowing he must shield his gaze from her. They were so attuned she would read his mood in an instant.

"May I come in?" His apartment at Windsor Castle, and she had never ventured within. Never been _invited_ in. Already she would take advantage of their new roles, even as they worked to define them.

"Ma'am," Melbourne said, gesturing with his hand, forcing his mouth to assume the shape of a smile.

Victoria wore a light summer frock, and carried a broad-brimmed straw hat in her hand. She looked so fresh and young and so very pretty, he felt his smile become genuine and knew his eyes were full of warmth and affection as he reached for her hand.

She had come to ask him to walk with her in the garden. Her attendants would perforce be with her, but they had long been trained to hang back and never intrude when she was with her Prime Minister. Melbourne had not slept since leaving her the night before, and had slept little on his way from the Hall, or, truth be told, during his stay there. Yet in her presence all weariness fled and he felt his mood lift as though the sun had come out from behind the clouds.

Victoria waited only until they had put suitable distance between them and the women walking behind, engrossed in their own chatter beneath sun parasols. Then she fairly bubbled over with excitement.

"What do we do next? When can we announce our plans, Lord M? I want the world to know, so those silly _boys_ stop approaching our diplomats with their ridiculous proposals." Melbourne only half-listened to the sweet voice which rang in his ears like musical notes. His senses were swimming with her nearness, the feel of her hand in his own, her scent mingling with that of the garden around them.

" _I'm so tired of thinking, I want only to feel…for a time,"_ he told himself wearily.

"If you – if we are to proceed, we must have a plan. There will be opposition, most fierce from your uncle in Belgium. I think Cumberland knows your cousin George stands no chance, but Leopold will not abandon his ambition so easily." Melbourne knew his words of caution were not what she wanted to hear, and his heart lurched when her face fell, all trace of her prior exuberance wiped away.

"Do you think there will be opposition here? In England, from the people, or from the Members of our own government?" Melbourne had thought of little else over the past weeks, months, even years. He chose his words carefully.

"Formal opposition? Perhaps, but I doubt it. The mood of the country as a whole is against another German prince. Your Majesty's entire family is German, and has been for several generations past. Moreover, the sum paid your uncle every year since Charlotte's death rankles in the Commons. But unofficially, there will be much talk and most of it unflattering to me. As you know, I have not lived an exemplary life and there are those who will think my age alone renders me ineligible. Even incapable," he added wryly. As though _that_ was a problem, rather than the contrary. He could think of little else.

"You told me once that the best way to deal with public scandal is to ignore it and carry on," she reminded him.

They had turned the corner and entered a shaded portion of path, part of the Lover's Knot maze where tall hedges grew in an intricate pattern of walkways. Those ladies and gentlemen accompanying her were nowhere in sight, and Melbourne took advantage of the opportunity presented to stop walking and look down at Victoria with great seriousness.

"There is no rush to announce anything, ma'am. You must be very, very certain before taking that step. Do you truly know what your – what our life will be like, at least for a time? Everywhere we go, everything we do will be scrutinized. There will be talk, lewd cartoons, all the old scandals and some not so old. The Norton trial took place only a year before you came to the throne." Melbourne allowed some of his own trepidation to leak into his voice, which she immediately apprehended.

"Do you love me?" Victoria asked again, her own voice as firm as though she was addressing her Privy Council, and Melbourne was forcibly reminded that as innocent as she might be in some ways, this was a formidable young woman standing before him. "Or, not do you love me, for one may feel strong affection for a sister, a daughter, a pupil, a sovereign. Do you love me in the way a man loves the woman he wants for his own? The way you once loved your wife?"

Melbourne studied the upturned face, heart-shaped, wide across the cheekbones and tapering to a narrow chin and what was sure to become an elegant jawline. Her blue eyes were wide and heavily fringed with thick black lashes, and her lips full. She was on her way to becoming a striking woman, with all the promised strength of character shaping her features as well as the dignity which was her own and self-confidence for which he took some credit. _How could he hamper the destiny of this splendid young creature? How could he let her go?_

Melbourne sighed, knowing he could only give her the truth as he knew it. "I love you more than I ever thought I was capable of loving anyone. I love you in all possible ways, as a sovereign…as a woman. No matter what, ma'am, do not ever doubt that you have my entire heart in your keeping and will forever more."

He kissed her then, because he could do no less. Kissed her chastely, with closed lips, careful to not cross the boundaries of propriety – if there was any propriety in kissing one's queen in the hedges.

Victoria broke the contact first, leaning her head back to meet his eyes. "As I love you. You are my everything, Lord M, my world. There is you…and then there is everything else. As long as we love each other all the rest is just noise. I think they can not serve me as they did the French Queen, and anything less will be only annoyance."

 _So sure, so strong, so determined_ , Melbourne thought, his admiration tinged with wonder. _Was I ever that sure of anything?_

He dined at the Palace, but did not linger in the Queen's drawing room afterward, asking permission to withdraw so he could attend to some correspondence. Once in his own apartment, Melbourne scrawled a note to Fred summoning him to Windsor. Then he stripped to shirt and trousers and sunk in his armchair, too exhausted for further action.

**

Victoria half-attended to the girls around her taking turns reading _The Journal of a Lady of Fashion_ from _The Ladies_ Pocket Magazine. It was only when Wilhelmina, herself newly married, suggested they next look at an article titled "The Duties of a Married Woman" that her attention was briefly captured. At a quarter past ten Victoria rose suddenly and announced her intention to retire.

She startled her maids by announcing a wish to bathe, and then waited while the great copper tub was filled, pacing restlessly back and forth, shedding pieces of her own apparel while her dresser fumbled at buttons and laces. She required her maids to give her privacy, and as soon as she was alone discarded the muslin bath shift and slid in the warm scented water quite naked.

Sliding so far down that only her head and knees protruded from the water, Victoria worked up a great lather in her hands and rubbed them slowly, with great care, over every inch of her body. That near-constant roiling tension in her belly accelerated the nature and focus of its demand, so that her hand nearly went to the unexplored spot from which all sensation emanated. Instead, she cupped water in her hands and let it trickle down until that mysterious agitation reached a fever pitch, then stood with a great splash and stepped out.

Skerrett poked her head back in and saw with scarcely-concealed surprise that Her Majesty had imperfectly dried herself and wore a silk dressing gown. She was rubbing at her long hair in an attempt to dry it.

"Miss Skerrett, please dismiss the other maids. I do not require further assistance. Only can you comb my hair? I find I cannot manage alone," and when the Queen giggled a little at her own incompetence, her maid bit back a smile.

Victoria only sat, still as a statute, until the noise of her bath being emptied had stopped and an utter silence told her she was alone. Then she waited some more, watching the hands on the mantle clock make their way around the hour, listening for those faint sounds in the corridor that would indicate the last footman had withdrawn. Only a sentry at the top of the stairs would now guard this wing of the palace.

She was not frightened of her decision, only of the possible consequence – rejection. Once, he had turned her away and it had seared her soul with more breathtaking pain than she had thought it possible to endure and survive. But that was then and this was now, and he said he loved her and would marry her. Well, she would not wait. She would go to him and demand he seal his promise with an ineradicable act. Then he could not change his mind, and they – whomever _they_ were – could not separate them. Reason told her that her intention was wise, and her body screamed that it was necessary, for she would be driven mad otherwise by this obsessive longing, this hunger. But what if – _No_ , she told herself sharply _, you will not think what if. You will not think at all. Now it is time for action_.

Victoria stood, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin as though going into battle. Perhaps it was a battle of sorts. She loved and desired him with every fibre of her being and heart and mind both told her that he felt likewise, yet some unknown misgivings she sensed in Lord Melbourne still threatened her heart's desire and she tonight she would vanquish them.

She paused outside his door for only a moment. If it were locked she would have to tap and request entry, and that would add another level of awkwardness to the encounter. Victoria was proud to see that her hand trembled only slightly as it reached out to turn the knob.

The door opened easily on well-oiled hinges, making no sound as she stepped over the threshold, gathering up the hem of her robe in one hand. Lord M was asleep in his armchair, looking for all the world like he did when he fell asleep in her drawing room during the more tedious evening entertainments. Victoria viewed his beloved form with great tenderness, her eyes running over that handsome face, the thick curling hair she had so long wanted to touch. He wore only a loose white shirt and trousers, and through the open neck she saw a tantalizing glimpse of his chest with its dark curling hair.

She was sure she had made no sound but he jerked upright, clearly startled, blinking his eyes furiously at what he clearly thought might be an apparition.

Victoria closed the door behind her and stepped forward, not hesitating, only uncertain what her next move should be. Melbourne rose and executed a sharp bow with none of his usual grace. He seemed to be as much at a loss as she was, Victoria thought. _But gentlemen of experience know how these things should proceed_.

"Ma'am, what are you doing here?" The question was so unexpected Victoria felt her mouth drop open.

 _Must I say it?_   She wondered frantically. Courage and determination propelled her forward with such suddenness they nearly collided. Victoria looked up at him, her eyes wide and speaking, and willed him to understand without words.

"Ma'am…Victoria," he began softly, his raspy voice further roughened by sleep and thickened, she thought, by emotion.

"Yes, Lord M?" Hopeful once again, she leaned forward so that they nearly touched.

"You should not be here. Let me take you back to your apartment," he said, and those words felt like a knife to her heart, the pain so sharp it made her gasp even as her eyes filled with tears. Suddenly ashamed of her brazenness, Victoria turned away, stumbling in her haste.

"I am sorry I disturbed you. I will leave," she choked on the words, forgetting to pick up the hem of her gown so her foot became entangled. Melbourne took hold of her arm to steady her, and even in her burning humiliation Victoria noticed that his face was grave, his eyes filled with something like pain.

"Please…you don't understand what you're doing, I think only of you…" he mumbled as he righted her. When he released her arm the front of her dressing gown parted, showing an expanse of rosy flesh and nothing else. Victoria angrily held it closed and turned once more to leave.

**

When Melbourne awoke to the image of his Queen standing before him it had seemed like the fulfillment of too many dreams on too many sleepless nights. Swathed only in a shimmering silk wrapper, her hair unbound and spilling over her shoulders, she embodied every fantasy he had ever entertained. In the dim candlelight he saw a temptress, all eyes and lips and smooth creamy skin under a thin layer of silk. It took all his will to not pull her forward and make her his at once, but instead he forced reason to prevail. This was Victoria, his friend, his queen, his darling girl, not some succubus manifested to sate his lust.

Melbourne was too overcome to speak from his heart, so instead words spilled out, nonsensical words which lacerated her fragile pride. When he saw the hurt he had inflicted he was instantly remorseful and damned himself for the equivocating coward he was.

"My darling, my precious girl, no, no, please…you don’t understand…don't think that I'm insensitive to the great honor you do me…I want you too much…I am afraid…" He didn't know what words spilled out of his mouth, only that he had to kiss her and did, had to feel her and slipped his hand under her robe so his fingers found her.

Once he began kissing her she turned in his arms, returning his kisses, putting her arms around his neck so the dressing gown slid from her shoulders and she stood before him wondrously, gloriously naked. Her thighs spread and he felt her sex, felt her rubbing herself against his leg. Under his hands her rump began thrusting in its own rhythm and he knew, then, that they would not turn back. When he huffed a small laugh she did likewise, her own breathless and distracted by what he knew were unexplored sensations coursing through her.

"Perhaps we should move…the bed…" and she only nodded and took his hand, guiding it where she wanted it.

Time slowed down for him then, as though to imprint every moment an indelible image on his mind. He guided her to lay back on the big fourposter bed and only sat beside her, looking at her, stroking her flank, watching her for assurance that she was ready for what was to happen.

Her eyes were heavy and languid with passion, her mouth parted as she panted, moving restlessly. When his gaze traveled across her breasts and flat stomach to the dark v between her legs, he could see the slight parting there, the telltale moisture and plump swelling that proclaimed her desire.

Melbourne was determined that she would feel nothing but pleasure this night. He restrained his own need and instead primed her further, dipping his finger and then gliding it in careful circles until she could no longer remain passive and instead arched herself toward him, demanding. He carefully measured his attentions, bringing her just to the edge and then retreating once, twice, thrice, until she whimpered and pleaded.

When she fully saw him, he was prepared for some sign of fear but she only reached for him greedily. He allowed her to guide him, her small hand performing its unfamiliar task with unerring instinct until he was poised over her. If there was pain she gave no sign, only an expression of such ineffable satisfaction when he filled her that it seemed he had waited a lifetime for that moment.

**

Her surprised moans of satisfaction, the tightening spasms that gripped him before he gave way to his own release, still lingered fresh in memory as he held her. Victoria's hand trailed over the line of dark hairs on his lower abdomen and her breath was warm against his chest where she pillowed her head. Melbourne could smell the light floral fragrance from her hair, the long dark hair that spilled over his arm, and idly stroked the soft skin of her back. He felt as though he were floating, somewhere beyond ordinary time and space, and realized with a shock that the unusual emotional state was happiness and perfect contentment. Somewhere in the back of his mind lurked the thought that nothing would ever be this simple, or this right, again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So brief it's almost a cheat but a necessary transition. There should be ominous music playing in the background as you read, but I leave that to your imaginations. Thank you all for following along. Perhaps in the end this story will turn out to not be "AU" but in fact, the truth history has concealed from us.

_**Christian Friedrich von Stockmar** _

In another wing of the great palace, another man was awake as well, although not nearly as content and certainly not as happy.

Christian Friedrich von Stockmar pressed a bank note into the open palm of a young footman. When the young woman standing beside the footman shifted impatiently from one foot to another, Stockmar stood back and gestured for them both to enter his apartment. Thinking quickly, he went to the bureau and took out a leather purse. Slowly and methodically he counted bank notes. He pressed one more into each waiting hand, this of a substantially larger denomination than the previous outlay, and carefully set aside a much larger stack. So large that he could see the Adam's apple of the young man bob up and down, could hear the sharp intake of breath from his female companion.

"You need not concern yourself any further, my young friends. You understand such speculation is highly inappropriate. There is no reason the Queen should not take counsel with her Prime Minister as she chooses, when she chooses." When they started to protest, Stockmar showed an avuncular smile.

"However, I am touched by your plight and your concern for Her Majesty both, so I wish to do what I can for you in return." He laid his palm flat atop the thick stack of bills and shifted his gaze from one to the other. "I join you in wanting to protect the Queen from those who would judge her harshly – and improperly, of course. Therefore…" and he told the young housemaid what specific items he required from her, then turned his attention to the footman.

When they had gone Stockmar locked up his banknotes once more. In the privacy of his own apartment in the darkest hour of the night he permitted a brief release of emotion, cursing viciously, calling the queen the vilest of names, attributing to her acts only performed in dockside stews. As fast as it came, his emotional storm passed and he composed his features once more.

Such weakness was not something he often indulged, and the German knew better than anyone that there was no privacy in a palace. In the dark, with no one to witness, his features composed themselves once more into those of a tranquil statesman.

All was not lost, he rationalized, and in some ways this new development might be beneficial to his master's interests. If handled properly, it could be just the thing to nudge her stubborn, headstrong majesty into action and break the impasse which had so frustrated him the past year. He scrawled a quick note in his heavy hand, only a few lines directed to the master he served – his puppet, if only the fool knew – King Leopold of Belgium. He directed Leopold to have the prince in position as close to a channel port as could be arranged, and ready to embark at a moment's notice. _Remind him of duty and destiny, and encourage him to set  aside personal desires. He will have time enough to indulge those after the fact. For now, he must take what he's given and leave the rest to us._

To say that Baron Stockmar was master of the long game would be to underestimate his capacity for attention to the minutest details of daily life, as those details might fit into the masterpiece he was creating. With his help – nay, because of his service – his master would someday rule the civilized world, through the niece and nephew they would together place on the throne of the greatest nation on earth. The Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland would become an empire on Stockmar's watch, through these stupid, wayward children and in spite of, or because of - if the plan taking shape in his mind came to fruition -  the unbridled lust of an impetuous girl, he would shape the destiny of nations.


	10. Chapter 10

_Frederick Lamb, Baron Beauvale_

That one night, one glorious night, was not enough, would have never been enough. Melbourne and Victoria shared love and whispers and laughter, had lain in each other's arms blissfully content until the stirrings awakened again. He made love to her twice more before dawn, the second time lazily, their connection almost incidental to hushed murmuring voices and kisses, the third time fevered, Victoria straddling him, not bothering to remove the white shirt of his she had pulled on earlier for modesty's sake.

Her small frame lost in the folds of white billowing fabric, he guided her down, letting her set the pace. Only when she neared her peak and lost focus did he gently roll her over and take command, gently and firmly dominating her.

He thought he might devour her with kisses and not be sated, could hold her yet so tight and never grow weary. Sleep was something he feared because it would steal precious moments he could listen to her breathe. Melbourne feared that if he once let her go she would disappear into the mists like a fever dream.

But morning came as it always does, and with it a reminder that they did not occupy a world of their own creation. At first light Melbourne regretfully untangled himself from her clinging limbs. He dressed quickly in the dark and went back to rouse her, whispering in her ear.

"Remember, my darling, when we meet again things must be as they were," Melbourne cautioned.

She groaned and mewled and wound her arms around his neck with surprising strength.

"I want to do this again and again. I don't want to ever stop," Victoria murmured in a drowsily seductive voice. Melbourne stopped her talking with a kiss, muffling her voice.

"Ma'am, you are too demanding. I fear I shall not always satisfy you." Melbourne meant to speak in jest, but realized when the words were out he had spoken from his own flagging confidence. Victoria shook her head emphatically.

"Why ever would you not? My darling, you are perfect, our night was perfect, and _we_ are perfect together. It needs only to make it official, and I will begin drafting what I will say to the Council."

"Victoria, do not commit anything to paper, I beg you. There are spies everywhere. We must determine how best to proceed. Quietly, carefully, to avoid drawing any hostility down on either of us. I've…with your permission I will confide in my brother. He has much experience in diplomatic maneuvers and a real knack for such things."

She brightened, looking pleased, and Melbourne was touched to realize it was at his suggestion of confiding in someone.

"Please do. I am happy you want to tell your brother at least. This – us - it won't seem quite real to me, until others know."

Melbourne felt such tenderness wash over him that tears came to his eyes. _How could this magnificent young woman feel so deeply, care so much_?

**

Frederick Lamb, Baron Beauvale, came in response to his summons, expecting news of some calamity, and he was not disappointed. Lord Melbourne, facing his urbane, sophisticated younger brother, found himself at a loss for words. They had always freely exchanged news of their amorous encounters and on more than one occasion shared a mistress, had in fact divided the favors of the delicious Harriette Wilson three ways, with brother George in the bargain and Ponsonby a fourth for good measure.

Yet telling Fred, now watching expectantly, even suspiciously, the words did not come. Melbourne found himself as tongue-tied and agitated as any youth standing before a censorious parent. When it finally did spill out, in mangled form, he watched his brother process the nearly incomprehensible gibberish, parsing it for sense.

"The Queen is to marry? But whom? And why am I involved? Surely Palmerston as Foreign Secretary – Lansdowne – ah family matter? Needing my guidance? No! Not…." And Melbourne held his breath, waiting for the truth to dawn. "You've never gotten Will to offer and her to accept? Our nephew, Prince Consort?"

Melbourne flushed angrily. "Not Will! Where did his name come in? No! Her Majesty has – has done me the honor of proposing marriage and I have accepted."

The stunned silence enveloping his brother, Frederick's careful lack of expression, told him all.

"The devil – _why?_ You can't mean to marry that girl?" Melbourne only looked at him levelly, saying nothing.

"You do. And I need not ask why, I suppose. It's been obvious to everyone, you're smitten with her and she's besotted with you. But _marriage?_ What will the King of the Belgians say to that?"

Melbourne laughed shortly. "What can he say? Not much. He's a British pensioner."

"A pensioner with your Foreign Secretary and half the House of Lords in his pocket. Or the pockets of the bankers who keep Leopold propped up for reasons of their own."

Fred got up and foraged in the sideboard for glasses, poured liberal quantities of brandy for both and lifted his own for a toast.

"You know I wish you happy, William. Lord knows you deserve it. Does she make you happy?"

Melbourne felt his eyes moisten, knew his expression grew soft. "Oh, yes," he whispered huskily. "Despite everything…yes, she makes me very happy."

"You know it won't be easy, don't you? I'm not saying there will be much in the way of opposition, so long as we handle the political questions with care. But all the old garbage will be brought forth again, and they will humiliate you if they can. My advice is to ignore it all, don't read the damn papers, don't pick up a pamphlet and remember, you have more friends than you know."

Together they hashed out a timeline, identified and disposed of what obstacles might arise and confirmed Melbourne's own early instinct to keep the matter quiet until his time in office ended and the Whig majority died a natural death.

"If you resign prematurely you'll make enemies in your own party. Keep the matter private another half year. Then it will have been five years since the last general election and the Tories are bound to have a majority. I don't think you'll have problems there. Those who matter – Wellington, Peel, Stanley – will understand that for a _former_ Whig minister to marry the queen she will have to bend over backwards to avoid even the _appearance_ of partiality, which means showing favor to them and none to the Whigs."

"You don't foresee any other obstacles?" Melbourne asked, scrutinizing his brother's expression closely.

"No," Frederick answered at once. "What could there be? Less than for her to marry a first cousin – Cambridge or one of those Coburgs – or, God forbid, a foreign prince from one of the major powers. The tittle tattle you can predict as well as I. They'll dredge up not only your marriage and your lawsuits, but Augustus as well. You managed to sire only one living child, and that one born defective, so incapacitated he could never function as an adult. But in answer to that, any yeoman farmer could trot out the risks of consanguinity. You know as well as I do the resentment toward another foreign marriage. So…what objection could there be? Even those most determined to slander you would deprive themselves of a chance to sell papers, by raising objection to the marriage itself. Let them have their sport." He tossed back his own brandy, thirsty from talking, and poured again for them both.

"So now…let me wish you happy in earnest, brother." Melbourne accepted his brother's embrace. "Will I meet my new sister _en famille_? Does she know you intended to confide in me?"

She did, Melbourne assured him, and to ensure their first meeting as prospective family would take place away from prying eyes, sent a page begging private audience. He thought he would burst with pride at the moment he brought his brother to his beloved. Victoria had created Frederick Baron Beauvale in 1839 and knew him better as her ambassador to Vienna; now she met him properly for the first time in the intimate attitude of prospective family. Melbourne felt for the first time the reality taking shape.

**

As days and then weeks passed and some of the newness wore off, Melbourne found himself able to relax and dismiss much of the early doubt which had plagued him. Their private time was limited by circumstance to one, sometimes two nights a week – those nights when they could come together and make love and linger until dawn. Servants were easily dispatched, and the ladies of the household were scheduled for duty at the will of the Queen according to the demands of her schedule. Her mother was not so easily avoided, because she was always on hand, save for trips she took to visit friends away from the Court. On those nights and, once, for an entire weekend, Victoria retreated to her apartments after an early dinner and dismissed any who might intrude.

As sublime as those times were when they could fully enjoy one another, there was another sort of sweetness in simply holding her for a few stolen minutes. Victoria needed to touch him, to hold his hand, stroke an arm or leg, playfully nibble on a finger, caress his hair and to Melbourne these things were like rain in the parched desert of his heart. Even in daylight hours, at her desk, while working on the boxes, sitting in her drawing room surrounded by courtiers, Victoria would press an arm or a leg against him, find some excuse to let her cool soft hands linger on his. He was no stranger to carnal relations but this, this was something so far beyond those liaisons as to be another species entirely. As naïve and illogical as he knew the sentiment to be, Melbourne sometimes felt as though no one had ever loved this way before.

They gave little thought to consequences until the night he came to her and Victoria sheepishly confessed in oblique euphemisms that she found herself indisposed and must sleep alone, despite the opportunity which presented itself. When Melbourne understood her, he was conscious of relief and disappointment dueling for primacy in his mind.

"May I come in and sit with you then?" he persisted, while she looked away, shame-faced. "Sweetheart, it's a natural occurrence and once which I suppose we must be grateful for, but it doesn't mean I can't enjoy your company as we celebrate the Duchess's weekend visit to Lady Salisbury."

He chuckled at her confusion and embarrassment and stepped inside, closing the door to her chamber firmly behind him. Victoria resisted only briefly when he wrapped her in a close embrace, and he turned her face up to him.

"Do you want me to leave? If so I will, but only because you wish it."

She shyly led him inside, looking at him uncertainly for some clue as to what was expected. Melbourne only shrugged out of his coat and reclined on her bed, pulling her onto his lap. Cradling his queen in his arms, Melbourne murmured against her hair.

"We have not spoken of it, but getting you with child is a risk we must avoid. There are ways, none foolproof, but…timing…"

"Do you want a child with me, Lord M?" Victoria whispered shyly, eyes averted, and looking so much like a child herself, he felt vaguely uncomfortable.

"I would be honored, ma'am. After we are married. I wouldn't recommend precipitating that sequence of events."

"Then we must be married soon, I think." Melbourne explained to her once again the rationale for waiting until his government died a natural death, as Fred had so cheerfully put it. Victoria looked less than pleased at his answer.

"What is the timing you referred to?" she asked curiously.

"It's not certain, you understand, but generally, you're most fertile 12 to 14 days before your next period starts. This is the time of the month when you're most likely to get pregnant. It's unlikely that you'll get pregnant just after your period, although it can happen."

"How do you know all this? My mother never told me…"

"Your mother never told you many things, my darling. I have some experience in these matters, and some…er…professional acquaintances who make it their business to know." Victoria tilted her head, puzzling out his statement.

"Do you mean…ladies, females who…?" Her voice sounded awe-struck, and he smiled, chucking her under the chin.

"Females for whom pregnancy is an occupational hazard, yes. And in past relationships I did wish to avoid any…mishaps which might lead to problems, for the lady and myself. Despite the rumors, Brinsley Norton is by no means…"

Victoria sat up suddenly, her eyes wide with shock.

"Norton? Do you mean the criminal conversation you were accused of? But you were found innocent!"

Melbourne was startled by her impassioned outrage. _Did she really think--?_ He debated letting the matter go, torn by everything her innocence implied – did he want to disillusion her now, or let her persist in her innocence and feel foolish, even deceived, later?

"I was, fortunately. Such things are difficult to prove and of course, I severed the connection."

"Do you mean you were – you did -?" Victoria's voice tapered off as she digested the realization.  Then, "Did you _love_ her? Was it like – like us? You loved her and could not marry?"

"No!" Melbourne realized he had raised his voice, expressing his own outrage at the thought she expressed. "No, my darling, never, never like us. And no thought of marriage. It was a relationship of mutual convenience only, no different than any other happening all around us. Never, ever like us, and never, ever love."

He waited to see how she would respond, whether she would accept and understand. She was an adult now, and could not be sheltered forever from the life all around her. Then he cradled her face in his hands.

"My darling. I _am_ a man, and not a young one. I have had many such connections, mostly very enjoyable and most with congenial companions. I have never felt more than friendship for the best of them. I love _you_. Remember that and let's put the matter to rest." Victoria shifted off his lap and nestled under his arm, tracing patterns with her fingertip on his leg, seemingly lost in thought. Melbourne leaned his head back against the mound of pillows and allowed himself to drift in a sweet web of sensations, the fragrance of her hair, her soft pliant form leaning against his, her feather-light touch….

"Ah…um…perhaps…" he shifted slightly and lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to the vein on her wrist. Victoria giggled softly and returned to her previous position.

"You like that," she said delightedly, stroking the fabric of his trousers once more, studying the path of her fingers. "May I see?"

"See?" Melbourne grinned. "I think you are not unfamiliar with the effect you are having."

"But I've never actually _seen_. We are always occupied. May I see?" She hesitated, her hand resting at his waist. He smiled lazily, amused and aroused.

"As you wish, ma'am." He folded his arms behind his head and lazily watched to see what she would do next. 

"Are you satisfied, ma'am? Or do you want to see more?" Victoria nodded as though offered a rare treat, eyes wide, and licked her lip absently. When she clasped her hand around him he inhaled sharply, belying the pretense of nonchalance, but let her do what she would. Melbourne felt no inclination to prompt, only wanting her to explore as she would. He was hers, completely, and what better way to show her than to surrender to her ministrations? She was unhurried, with no apparent goal in mind save to know him more completely, and he was content to drift along on waves of pleasing sensation. 

"Marry me soon, Lord M," she crooned, and he looked at her in wonder, all eyes and lips and streaming hair, beautiful, infinitely precious...his own to love, to have and to hold.

"I think I will have to, ma'am. I think I will have to." Melbourne cupped his hand around the back of her head and drew her up to kiss her. "Mrs. Melbourne. Lady Melbourne." At that moment he could imagine no battle he would not fight, no trouble he would not endure, to make her his own in the eyes of the world.


	11. Chapter 11

**[Heroes: First Anglo-Afghan War 1839-1841 (Video Link-Wear Headphones at Work:)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kNk9QpAHFno) **

 

Victoria lingered long in her private study, poring over a many-times-folded letter which had reached her just that day. It was not the first such, and each one – sometimes twice in a single day, then none for weeks, then again one appearing when she had put all expectation aside. The paper was well-used, lines crossed, paper stained and the ubiquitous gritty dust of the mountainous region from which it originated. She had learned to rely heavily on the large globe which had long stood, neglected save as an item of décor, and the maps she had requested and received from Lord Melbourne.

She analyzed her own anticipation of these letters and the interest she took in her correspondent. It was a rare enough occurrence to engage in such unguarded conversation with anyone outside her Court and immediate family, doubly so when they spoke to her naturally, with none of the stilted etiquette and formal usage to which she had long been accustomed. In fact, she thought, other than Lord M, no one had ever spoken to her as this scribe did, as casually and unaffectedly as she imagined ordinary people addressed one another. And the sights, and sounds and smells described therein, all part of an alien world on the other side of the globe which stood beside her desk, yet as familiar – or should be – as good English bread and ale. The characters she read about avidly – mustachioed native fighters and their mysteriously veiled wives, children who fought with dogs over the campfire scraps, and a cast of British boys who could as easily be tending the horses in her stable, bearing the silver salver her letters were delivered on, waving their caps when she passed by in procession – had become as real to her as any of Mr. Dickens' dear familiar protagonists. _No,_ she self-corrected, _these are_ not _characters in a novel. These are my subjects, sent around the world to live and sometimes die in a strange place and it is only right that I know them._

But the letters were not serious and grim, despite the matters of which they spoke. The writer was irreverent, bold, nearly flirtatious, eloquent, insightful and slowly, gradually, had revealed himself to be a man of sensibility beneath his joking, sometimes coarse exterior. It felt, Victoria decided, as though she had a friend. _How peculiar! I've never had a friend, other than Lord M. Lehzen, of course, but she is my governess and never entirely forgets her subservient manner. And my darling Lord M, William, loves me too well to ever fail to cherish and protect me._ Captain Cameron, although certainly he was a most loyal subject, was no respecter of persons and even teased her, as Victoria imagined an elder brother might tweak his little sister's dignity.

She had not yet discussed the issues she read about, Auckland's errors in judgment and strategy, the Shah's perfidy and the essentially pointlessness of the entire endeavor – from the perspective of one soldier, Victoria hastened to amend. Certainly, there were far greater interests involved, matters of which a soldier in the field would know nothing, of which his commanders might well know nothing. But as Queen, she _should_ understand fully why men were sent to fight and die in her name. As she'd done before, Victoria made up her mind to ask Lord Melbourne those things. And yet…and yet, it felt so disloyal to question him, her good, kind, wise minister, her teacher, friend and lover, soon to be husband. _Nonetheless, I must,_ she told herself again. _Surely he can explain these things satisfactorily, and if he has been misled, he will rectify the situation_.

" War is a bloody stupid way to get a pretty girl to miss you when you’re gone…" That sentiment was more of Captain Cameron's raillery, of course. An improper way to address one's sovereign, but she could hardly rebuke him when it was that casual informality that made him so refreshing an acquaintance. _Besides_ , Victoria reminded herself, _nowhere does he say it is you he refers to_. 'A pretty girl' – no one had ever called her that before, had ever said she was pretty. Perhaps he had met some other girl during his weeks recuperating in London. Perhaps it wasn't her at all.

Victoria folded the letter and pressed it back into the heavily-marked envelope which had been carried around the world to reach her. She would write him later. But first –

"The Viscount Melbourne," a footman intoned, swinging open the heavy oak door and stepping aside to permit the Prime Minister to enter.

Victoria felt the familiar _frisson_ coursing through her, the heady effervescence which would never cease. Now that things had changed, it had only grown stronger from those early days when she adored her handsome Prime Minister with a schoolgirl's crush. She accepted that she would never outgrow the sense of wonder that such a splendid man, handsome, charming, sought-after by beautiful, accomplished women, had chosen to love _her_.

Her eyes swept over him, the thick, curling hair only slightly tinged with silver, chiseled features, kind smiling eyes. His black coat molded precisely to his fine shoulders, embroidered waistcoat buttoned over fine lawn shirt, long legs encased in close-fitting trousers.

He bowed more gracefully than any other gentleman, she thought, extending her hand and feeling a shiver run up her spine when his lips grazed her knuckles. Victoria nodded dismissal to the footman, who backed out of the room and closed the door. When she heard the latch click into place she shyly raised her face, hoping for a more intimate greeting.

Sometimes during their daily briefing Lord M was all business, still amusing, fond, playful but holding back all the same, as though he needed to remind himself of his duty. But always, after, there would be a moment when the longing between them was palpable, a living thing, and he would lay aside the formalities of his office and hold out his arms to her. Victoria lived for those moments, for the real tactile physicality of his chest under her cheek, his hands on her back, those other hidden parts pressed almost aggressively against her abdomen demanding notice. She would hold her breath then, until his lips met hers and she could exhale, dragging his own breath into her lungs, flicking tongue against tongue, drinking in his essence.

"What do you have for me today, Lord M?" Victoria asked, wanting to address the business at hand so they could progress to more pleasurable activities for however many minutes they might steal.

"Dispatches from Afghanistan, ma'am," he said promptly, setting the leather diplomatic pouch on her desk. Victoria's eyes flickered in surprise, a look he did not miss.

"You were, perhaps, thinking of Afghanistan in my absence?" Melbourne's voice was intimate, teasing her, and she blushed.

"I actually was," she admitted.

"The budgets are enclosed. That will bore you, I'm sure, tedious things. Auckland requires an increase to cover the cost of garrisoning the troops over the winter."

"Does the Shah not object? Last winter I believe the fort was left unmanned, unguarded and our troops billeted on the plain, left vulnerable to attack. A man was picked off nearly every day by insurgent forces, I think."

Melbourne raised an eyebrow and looked at her quizzically. "Your Majesty is singularly well-informed. Whether the information is accurate I cannot say."

"It contradicts the reports Baron Macaulay submitted, certainly," Victoria answered carefully. "Never mind. Pray go over what you think I should see first and I can ask my questions after."

Melbourne laid out each document and gave a brief summary of the contents. Long columns of figures danced before Victoria's eyes. Numbers were such tedious things, she thought, and instantly admonished herself. These _numbers_ told a story, if she could only understand them. Was it true they were bribing, in effect subsidizing, the same chieftains who would kill British soldiers, as Captain Cameron had once said? Were these budgets the entire cost of the war, or were far larger sums paid directly from the East India Company and thus never accounted for in these reports submitted to her government?

An hour, then two, passed quickly. Victoria as always was enthralled by her First Lord's manner in making the driest dispatches come alive with his colorful description of the personalities involved, old anecdotes intended to amuse her and keep her attention engaged. When he came to the military lists, those men put forward for promotion, Victoria read carefully. So many were posthumous awards, and a disheartening number included pensions for those who sustained grievous injuries and would live without limbs, with horrendous life-changing disfigurements.

As a final task he slid across those documents which required her signature.

"I'll put those aside to sign later, Lord M. It is too beautiful a day to remain inside. Will you walk with me?" Victoria pushed back her chair and rose, looking up at him hopefully. To her pleasure he stepped around the desk and with a now-familiar gesture invited her to step into his embrace. _Always so careful!_ Victoria thought, _I am precious to him_.

He cupped her face in both hands and nibbled at her lip, kissed her eyelids, her temples, trailed his lips down the line of her jaw until they found the sensitive hollow behind her ear. Victoria sighed deeply and heard herself make a soft purring noise of contentment and pleasure. His scent, so deliciously familiar, filled her nostrils, paper and leather and some subtle exotic fragrance, spicy and musky and altogether wonderful.

"Mama is going to Bath this weekend. To take the waters? To attend the Assemblies? Some such, with Lady Dorchester and Aunt Adelaide. Are you – will you stay at Buckingham House?"

"If the Court was at Windsor, I would stay every night. There is not so much excuse for me in London, only a mile from my own lodgings." His beloved, raspy voice was low and he spoke next to her ear so she felt the warmth of his breath sending new shivers down her spine.

"Lord M! Don't say no! It's been…it's been too long and I miss you." Victoria screwed up her courage – _can I be so bold?_ "I miss being in your bed and having you hold me at night."

He laughed softly. "And you think I do not? A few more months, sweetheart, and then I will resign my office and we will announce to the Council."

Victoria felt what she had been seeking and rocked her hips gently against him so even through layers of petticoats and her skirt she could feel him – feel _it_ – twitch and shift and she felt proud and powerful, to have such an effect on him.

"Enough, my love. Now, before we walk…will you explain the source of your information on military matters? Has Palmerston been having private audience with you when I am away?"

Victoria heard a faint note of _displeasure_? _concern_? in his words, when he spoke the name of his Foreign Minister. She had long sensed the unspoken rivalry between the two men, and Palmerston's almost bullying manner, cloaked in jovial good humor.

"No, not Lord Palmerston." She clung to him, unwilling to relinquish the comfort of his arms. "A soldier who came to London to receive his Captain's commission and recuperate from his injuries. He has written me several times." _There,_ she thought _, just the right degree of unconcern. It is a matter of no importance, after all, an Irish regimental captain on the other side of the world._

"A soldier with an uncommon freedom to express his opinions to his Queen, it seems," Melbourne's voice had the gently teasing lilt of nonchalance that Victoria had come to learn concealed any stronger feelings he might have.

"A soldier who is quite outspoken, and out of the ordinary, it's true. The Duke of Wellington seemed to approve, or at least did not disapprove of his speaking freely."

"Wellington brought him to Court?"

"No, but he apparently knew him from Dublin or knew his family or some such thing. It's of no importance. I only felt somewhat at a loss, not knowing the things he spoke of. Perhaps I should? He certainly thought so, at least." Melbourne released her and Victoria stepped back, patting her pocket where the letter rested.

"Does 'he' have a name, this soldier who writes to you?"

"William Cameron, Captain William Cameron. He is in General Nott's regiment."

"One of Nott's regiments, my love. You do the general a disservice. He commands the expeditionary force Auckland sent into the hills of Afghanistan to keep the peace in Cabul."

"An expeditionary force which is now an army of occupation, Captain Cameron says. We now face the task of subduing a population who views us as invading infidels, and an insurgency that will pick off our men until they surge down from the hills and slaughter them all if they are left to spend another winter out in the open on an unprotected plain."

Melbourne moved away, and sat on the arm of a sofa positioned several feet away. He tilted his head, looking at Victoria with a curious expression that she thought held both pride and alarm.

"I see. You have me at a disadvantage, ma'am. I will look into the matters you discuss more closely. I have relied on Macauley and Palmerston for my understanding of the situation in the East."

"And the Edens," Victoria added tartly. She had not forgotten Emily Eden's connection to either India or William Lamb.

"And the Edens," Melbourne agreed. "It sounds like your Cameron regards your Governor-General as something of a villain."

"No, only a fool, I think."

"May I see these letters for myself? If I can take them it will help me prepare the questions I want to ask of my ministers."

Victoria hesitated, then took the most recent of these from her pocket and passed it to him. She watched his face closely as he read it over.

"I understand more clearly now," he said when he had done. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth, and Victoria wondered whether it signified imminent laughter or a frown.

 "If I have permission to withdraw, I will return to Whitehall and initiate inquiries into some of these matters."

"Now? But you only arrived…I have not seen you since…"

"I arrived some three hours ago, ma'am, and you saw me yesterday. With your permission I will return tonight."

"Are you angry with me?" Victoria asked softly.

"With you, ma'am? Never. I am embarrassed to be seen as derelict and wish to rectify it. When I return I will have a better idea whether there is any factual validity to what your –" he tapped the envelope against his hand thoughtfully, "-your friend alleges, or whether it's opinion only. Either way, you have given me valuable intelligence, for even if it turns out there is little truth in what he says, it signifies that this is what the troops believe. And their generals."

"I do not want any repercussions. Please, do not pass on the letter or the name of my informant."

"I will honor the confidence, and the spirit in which it was written. Your Captain Cameron is at least a man of rare good taste, and intelligence."

"Lord M! You are teasing me."

"Come here, my girl," Melbourne commanded, pulling her toward him so she stood between his outstretched legs. "I meant what I said, I am merely at a loss and don't like feeling as though I've failed to properly inform myself of what's going on over there. And perhaps a little, just a little, jealous of your correspondence with this man. Is he a good-looking fellow? Or was it merely his regimental uniform that caught your eye?" There might have been some small, flattering nugget of truth in his words, but Victoria was relieved to hear the unmistakable humor, to see the hint of a wry smile twisting that beautiful mouth.

"I don't remember his appearance, if I even noticed it. His manner was quite singular, as though…as though everything amuses him, and nothing intimidates him. I think you would have found him interesting. He is a gentleman, for all his long hair and rough demeanor. Wellington said his father has a castle in the northern part of Ireland."

"He must have made an impression, for you to write to him. You are careful in doing so? It would not due for that to become known."

Victoria told him the pseudonym she used.

"'Victoria Kent," Melbourne said, smirking. "Yes indeed, very clever. Perhaps I might assist you in future? You could have your mail sent from South Street. 'Victoria Kent, care of Buckingham Palace' might eventually be detected."

"Now you are making fun of me." Victoria laid her hands on his shoulders and pursed her lips, inviting his kiss. She stroked his cheekbones with her thumbs, secretly thrilling that she had the right to do so.

"Not at all…Mrs. Melbourne. I think I would prefer that you not continue writing in secret. You are my affianced wife and I intend to be a very possessive husband."

 


	12. Chapter 12

_Ranjit Singh 1837_

Melbourne was deep in thought as he rode back to his South Street lodging, that address at #39 likewise housing his workaday offices. 10 Downing was a ramshackle building in poor repair and so inconvenient none since Lord North had made it their primary residence. That warren of offices and cubbyholes was occupied by lesser clerks and department heads, along with a steadily increasing population of rats, mice and of course the official cats-in-residence, descended from a noble line of mousers.

He had at first been aware of feeling abashed, caught up short by the Queen's questions and, especially, by the knowledge she'd displayed which, if not deep, was certainly broad and had an uncomfortable ring of truth about it. Melbourne acknowledged no little annoyance on his part, the result of being made to feel foolish. He knew that had not been the Queen's intent, and she had turned to him for answers as she looked to him for all advice and guidance, but it was clear she was no longer a naïve girl of eighteen. Or, he corrected himself, she was no longer naïve and hesitant in exercising the authority of her Crown and assuming the weight of responsibility which accompanied it. Her plain naivete in other matters, that was an entirely different thing. Clearly, she was flattered by the heavy-handed flirtation from her soldier-correspondent.

But then, why would it be otherwise? She had no coming-out into society, had no opportunity for the light flirtations of youth, had never experienced the sort of attention from the opposite sex most girls of seventeen took for granted. Who would dare? Clearly, an Irish ne'er-do-well, a cavalry Captain, that's who.

Melbourne took the letter out and scanned it once more. He was troubled, by the surreptitious nature of these letters they exchanged – _how many? and for how long?_ – but not unduly so. He did not imagine she returned any serious regard, her heart was not engaged, he felt no dimming of her attachment to him. All things considered, it was probably harmless, if she were discreet – and if certain boundaries were set, for while he did not suspect Victoria of any duplicity he also had learned a hard lesson in nipping such things in the bud.

 _Victoria is not Caro_. She was guileless, and her every thought and feeling was to be read in her eyes, in her sweet open expressions. _No,_ Melbourne decided, _it will be good for her if I show myself as much concerned as I am and no more._

Like most men, Melbourne knew that he could play the game of seduction well when his heart was not engaged, had delivered lavish compliments and waxed poetic on many occasions, usually in the dance of extramarital _conversation_ with some bored beauty whose husband was disinterested or engaged in his own amorous business. He recalled some of the letters he had written in Dublin, those that Lord Branden had gotten ahold of. Enough praise in those of the woman's beauty and physical charms to cost a tidy sum out of court. But had he ever said such things to Victoria? _Never!_  was the immediate answer.

Alone in his carriage Melbourne smirked, mocking himself for the spurious logic. It would have been unseemly, even unmanly, to write or speak those same words to Victoria. _Have I ever told her that she's beautiful? 'No',_ was the plain answer. _Why not? Because she was the Queen, yet not only that. Because it's so much harder to speak of such things when one's heart is deeply committed. Because we have a love connection I expect her to know, to consider such frivolous words superficial and unnecessary._

Melbourne, always able to laugh at himself as readily as at any other, recognized the heavy irony. Deflower a virgin queen, bed her as often and as heartily and, increasingly, as creatively as circumstance allowed, even agree to marry her in defiance of society's expectations…yet fail to woo her with the same words any girl wanted to hear, to shower her with compliments, court her with even the simplest expression of regard? No wonder the commonplace salutations of her soldier-boy made her blush with pleasure.

Melbourne conceded that it was no more or less than most men of his age and generation did and failed to do when contemplating something beyond mere amorous dalliance, but also thought that in his case, there was some passivity tied to a last vestige of conscience. _If she did the pursuing, if I hid behind a show of reticence, then at least I'm spared the accusation_ I _seduced_ her? Something like that, Melbourne decided.

When he climbed out of his carriage and entered his residence Melbourne called for a footman to summon Tom Young at whatever gin-house he might be found, and Will Cowper and Anson both. It was late afternoon on a Friday and doubtless he had not been expected to return, but he was determined to at least begin the search for what information he could find on the beginnings of that blasted expedition into Afghanistan. He thought of summoning those of his ministers who would still be in town – Palmerston he could count on to come, but he could also count on Palmerston to run roughshod over any concerns he had, using his overbearing forceful personality – and thought better of the notion, wanting to read what he could find of the reports from the field that should certainly be here somewhere.

Some four hours later, when dusk had nearly surrendered to full dark, Melbourne sat surrounded by papers, still scanning those handed to him by the two men who served as private secretaries in his personal employee. A single lamp burned beside his chair, a guttering candle on Young's broad worktable. The men were all stripped to shirtsleeves, and had made free with a near-empty bottle of port. The remains of a cold ham, inexpertly hacked by one of them, and crusts of bread cluttered the rest of the table.

He had found everything and nothing. How could he, Prime Minister since 1835, have so little in evidence of the rationale for sending an army into that damned mountainous country? And how could he have sought no more at the time, before agreeing to a course of action he barely understood?

The 'country', for lack of a better word, had contracted from its earlier glory to a landlocked mountainous region unsuitable for farming, with little to be taxed, and the nominal ruler Dost Mohammad – and this name was familiar to Melbourne, not from the reports of his ministers, but from Emily Eden's prolific correspondence – seized control from his brothers. There were many tribal regions he didn't control, and this fact seemed, Melbourne noted in the margin of one of Emily's old letters, to have been entirely overlooked by the British Governors in the region. Clearly, Melbourne thought, they had not asked the right person, because Emily had said that very thing just _here_ , and he heavily underlined the passage written in her hand.

Ranjit Singh – another personage he knew in far richer detail from Emily than from her brother Lord Auckland or Auckland's predecessor – was Maharaja of the Punjab and an ally of Great Britain. Singh controlled a large military force modeled on Western lines, trained by European expatriates.

Peshawar Province, controlled the all-important access to the treacherous Khyber pass. In 1834 Singh occupied the city of Peshawar. This put Singh, a favorite of the British, in conflict with Dost Mohammed and so – and this phrase, extracted from a letter written by Lord Auckland in 1836, maddened Melbourne now as much as it had passed unremarked then – "it was determined that we would back Shah Soohaj in deposing Dost Mohammed."

Melbourne rubbed his face roughly, both frustrated and weary, thinking how little he had imagined the evening ending thus when he discovered that Victoria's vigilant mother had left for the weekend. Instead of passing the evening in pleasant company with the Queen and her ladies and then retreating to her chamber or his to enjoy an even more pleasant night, here he was poring over old letters in the company of young men who undoubtedly wished themselves likewise anywhere but here.

As many policy-makers in his government appeared to view Ranjit Sing as a threat, as thought him an ally. What had been the pivotal point in deciding to back him? And what in God's name made them think they even needed to pick one or the other in a land with only dubious strategic value and no clear determination of what a victory would look like. In and out in a year or less, Palmerston had claimed, based on nothing but wishful thinking.

Tom Young waved a sheet of paper in the air, so thin as to be nearly transparent, onion-skin rather than the heavy vellum of official documents. Tucked away in another folder, this one very clearly bearing Palmerston's seal, the sheet was, or purported to be, minutes of a meeting of the Secret Committee of the East India Company, where it was noted that if Ranjit Singh persisted in further expansion 'his position would require on our part an increase in military force which would be ruinous to our embarrassed finances.'

The East India Company, Melbourne knew well, had evolved from a privately-owned company, albeit with the richest trade monopoly in Christendom, to an entity controlled at least in part by the British Government. Pitt's East India Company act had seen to that in 1784. The Company retained autonomy over its commercial enterprises, but ceded all political governance to the Crown. It was an uneasy submission, and men Melbourne knew well had warned that there would be continual friction.

General Nott – ah, now _that_ name came directly from the hand of Victoria's new friend – argued that "the conduct of one thousand and one politicals has ruined our cause" and Wellington advised the Governor General of India that politicians had assumed far too great an influence over military matters. Nott, Melbourne read, was not a general in the British Army at all, but was a senior officer in the private army of the East India Company, and as such expressed contempt for his counterparts in the British Army. So no love lost between Wellington and Nott, yet they agreed on the essential fact that a military presence in Afghanistan was unsustainable.

When he looked up again it was because the candle on the table had guttered and gone out, untrimmed, its wick floating in a pool of wax that had overrun its plate. Anson looked only pained and weary; Tom Young sat up with such a jerk Melbourne suspected he had nodded off in his chair.

"What time is it?" Melbourne demanded, his voice roughened by the late hour.

"Half past one, sir. Can we give it up for tonight? I doubt you can make much more sense of this muck than we do, and a fresh start might be the thing. Besides," Young leered, winking, his coarse working-class features the picture of lewd jest. "Don’t you have somewhere better to be? I know I do – or did, because she's probably gone off with the next fellow who came in with his pay in hand."

Melbourne scowled, knowing full well that he would not succeed in censoring the crude humor.

"Leave it be and lock this room. I'll send for you when I want you again but expect it might be this weekend. George, Will – you will make yourselves available if I need you?"

They both nodded and Melbourne called for his horse to be saddled. "I will ride," he said simply. "It's quicker."

At twenty minutes past two by the ormolu clock on the mantle in his Buckingham House suite, Melbourne dismissed the footman who otherwise would stand, asleep on his feet, at the head of the corridor. He hesitated only long enough to make sure that the footfalls led down, towards the servants' quarters, before venturing back out into the hallway and counting down the doors – one to Her Majesty's household drawing room where she entertained her closest companions, the second to a seldom-used study, and the third, to her private apartment. Once there would have been a sentry posted here, but some months back Victoria had dispensed with that safeguard, claiming she did not rest well with someone immediately outside her door. Now the nearest guard occupied an alcove constructed for that purpose at the base of the only stairway leading directly to this wing of the palace.

He tried the latch, hoping it might be unlocked, concerned when it was. Safety and expediency, he thought – just one more compromise they had to make, and would continue to do so until the marriage had been finalized.

Melbourne's footsteps were absorbed by the thick wool rug carpeting her private drawing room. It would be inaccurate to suggest this was part of her boudoir, her most private space. In a Court peopled by layers of attendants, there might still be some plausible reason for her friend, if not her minister, to be found here. A book left behind? Some essential paper they had been studying? He had rehearsed such explanations before in his mind. But just _there_ , behind a door set discreetly into the wall on the far end of the rectangular chamber, beyond that lay… _everything_ , Melbourne finished the thought.

So many homely images flooded his mind, small moments he could not yet share, things he had not realized until recently he longed for. Simple things, the right to sit with her as she dressed, to lounge at eventide idly discussing the business of the day, to do something as common as read a book in her company while she wrote in her journal, all those small things which bespoke the tranquility of marital intimacy. His heart full, Melbourne tapped lightly and waited a moment, then pushed open the door to her bedchamber.

Victoria lay in her great State bed, dark hair flowing over her shoulders, the gossamer white fabric of her night dress glowing in moonlight. Her eyes were wide open, great dark pools.

"Lord M?" She whispered huskily. Melbourne huffed a small laugh and came forward.

"Did you expect someone else?" He teased, approaching the bed, his steps instinctively slowing as he drew nearer.

Victoria struggled to sit up, throwing back the bedcovers and when she did so he saw, in the direct light of a full moon, the wetness on her cheeks. She wiped them self-consciously with the sleeve of her gown.

Melbourne frowned and closed the distance between them.

"Victoria, what's the meaning of this? What has happened?" He looked to her for permission, but her face was turned away. _Old habits die hard_ , he thought, seating himself on the very edge of the bed. He took her chin in his hand and gently turned her to face him. "Tell me."

"Nothing," she said on a hiccup, trying to smile. "Oh, Lord M, I am so sorry. Please forgive me. I should not have – "

"Forgive you?" Melbourne's brows furrowed once more.

"I should not have – if you thought I was questioning you – the government – I would not – I would never – and if you wish, I will not write to Captain Cameron again. Only _please_ forgive me."

"Ma'am – Victoria, there is nothing to forgive you for. You have every right to question me, as your minister, and to question your government. It is your right and your duty to do so."

"But you left. And you did not come back."

"I did come back. I am here now. What's the cause of all this distress? I am very late, because I was going through as much history as I could lay hands on to find the answers you sought. I'm afraid I didn't get very far, because the little I found makes the matter more confusing, not less, but I am not done looking. I have only begun."

Victoria still looked so very unhappy that Melbourne was touched. "Oh, Victoria! Don't you know how proud I am of you? You are a magnificent sovereign and I have much to learn from you. It does you great credit to speak for your subjects, even to challenge your government and your ministers on their behalf. If I felt anything about your questions, it was a certain embarrassment that I did not have the answers and had not even considered the _question_ very seriously before. I will do better for you in the time I have left in office. And afterward, if you want my assistance on any issue."

"I will want your assistance and the benefit of your experience on _every_ issue, Lord M."

"You realize I will not properly be able to _advise_ you? That will be the business of Peel and his government."

"I will make my own mind up as I always have," and she smiled so impishly Melbourne ached to kiss her. "But I think I can seek _information_ as I always have, from the best teacher in the world."

Then he did kiss her, tasting the salt of her tears on her lips. He slid his hand under the heavy mantle of her hair, enjoying the feel of it unbound in dark waves over his wrist and arm.

"I do think we should discuss the wisdom of your corresponding under that unconvincing incognito with your soldier," he teased, whispering so his breath gently tickled her neck. "I am intrigued by your military acquaintance. He writes well and if his judgment in the matter of _pretty girls_ with _blue eyes_ is any indicator, his opinions are to be trusted. Because he is entirely accurate, my beautiful girl. _My_ beautiful girl. But perhaps Miss Kent should ask Captain Cameron to wish her happy, and tell him about her betrothal and impending marriage."

He stood and looked at her for consent. "May I --?"

Victoria smiled and slid over, making room for him beside her. Melbourne unknotted his cravat and tossed that and his coat on a nearby chair, then kicked off his shoes and untucked his shirt so it fell in loose folds of fine material past his hips. Victoria rose to her knees and carefully undid the top buttons.

"Do I not tell you often how very, very special you are? How much I adore you? I think not. Sometimes…sometimes such things are easier said when they don't matter, than when they do. Is that very crass and self-serving of me to claim? Am I just a too-cautious fool?"

Victoria dismissed his words with a shake of her head.

"You don't need to say such things, Lord M. You say everything I need to hear in the way you look at me, and the way I feel in your presence. Always safe, always cherished and protected. That is what being loved feels like."

She was still kneeling in front of him. Melbourne gripped her shoulders and pressed a kiss on the top of her head.

"What every gentleman wants to believe," he murmured appreciatively. "That pretty words are not necessary. However, I think I shall pay closer attention to those little civilities. You do not need to see them on paper that's travelled a thousand miles." He lifted the hem of her nightdress, raising it slowly past her hips, her taut stomach, her breasts, finally freeing her arms and laying it aside.

"Look at you! My beautiful Victoria. My darling, my precious, my exquisite girl. And soon…my bride?" Melbourne was delighted at her new lack of inhibition, the simple pleasure she took in showing herself to him without shame. _I gave her that_ _at least_ , the self-confidence to fully embrace her sensuality.

He slid the palms of his hands over the slope of her back, the rounded firmness of her hips and her nicely muscled thighs where they were spread to keep her balanced on the mattress where she knelt, tracing the outline of her silhouette. Then he gently laid her back against the pillows before dropping his trousers to join her under the quilt.


	13. Chapter 13

_Sketch by Emily Eden, 1838_

Dinner would be a poorly attended affair, the Queen was informed, so few at her table it would be almost a family group. Lord Melbourne had told her that he would be kept busy in town, both in delving further into his new obsessive need to understand the quagmire in the east and in readying himself and his office for the new session of Parliament. While she understood and respected his attention to duty and the demands of office, Victoria knew the recent memory of three consecutive nights spent sleeping in his arms, feeling the warm solid reassurance of his presence in her bed, would not be easily forgotten.

She knew in abstract fashion that in fact most married couples did not share a bed, and could only attribute that peculiarity to the effects of advanced age in her confidants. The ladies-in-waiting who made offhand reference to the more unpleasant duties of marriage were in their forties or more, and Victoria dreaded the time when she too might no longer crave the constant presence of her husband.

Age was no factor when she thought of Lord M – that he was several decades older than those ladies and gentlemen she considered elderly formed no part of the image she held in her heart and mind's eye. He was the most alive, the most effervescent, charming and handsomest man Victoria had ever seen, an opinion shared by those who gossiped about William Lamb in her presence and mathematics had no effect on that sentiment. Those younger men about her, the courtiers, young lords, equerries and yes, even those very dashing wounded officers who she had so recently entertained, sparked no attraction in her breast. She could even agree with some assessment that this or that one was good looking, but that seemed a thing apart from the feelings Lord M aroused, as though those others were another species entirely.

If Captain Cameron, her special friend, so amusingly irreverent and outspoken, was considered the finest specimen of manhood her giddy young maids-of-honor had encountered, Victoria could only concur somewhat dubiously in their opinion. Fine-looking certainly, as a particularly splendid racehorse might be, with gleaming well-tended coat, long legs and broad muscled shoulders, or an especially handsome spaniel, but not inhabiting the private realm of sensuality she shared only with Lord M.

That thought made the Queen laugh suddenly, and though she had only been partially attending to the whispering chatter of her maids, Wilhelmina Stanhope met her eyes with a conspiratorial look.

"I think Her Majesty will not share her letters from Afghanistan with us anymore, if we do not cease to tease her," Miss Stanhope cautioned, and was rewarded with more giggles.

"Surely Your Majesty does not write with your own hand?" Wilhelmina continued archly. "Baroness Lehzen serves as your private secretary and writes out your official correspondence. Does she _blush_ when answering the Captain on your behalf? Do you even see what she writes to him for you?"

"I would willingly take on that task, ma'am," another interjected, to gales of laughter and some delicate, maidenly hooting.

"That won't be necessary, Harriet," Victoria replied coolly. "Military matters are the provenance of my ministers, and Lord M will join me in corresponding with Captain Cameron."

The young women sitting around her lapsed into sudden, awkward silence. All knew without _knowing_ that some topics were off limits, no matter where else natural high spirits might lead them.

"Your Majesty." Victoria glanced up to see Baron Stockmar approach. He bowed over her hand, and extended his somewhat stiff smile to her attendants.

"I beg leave to tell you I will not be dining at Buckingham House tonight," Christian Stockmar intoned.

Victoria hoped she appreciated his many good qualities as she should but could never quite be _easy_ in his presence, a fact which prompted her to be more than ordinarily civil and considerate to her adviser. He represented Uncle Leopold, the only bright spot and source of unfettered affection in her otherwise-lonely childhood, and as such must be honored as she did her uncle.

 "We shall miss your company, Baron," Victoria replied courteously. Her maids-of-honor had already risen and murmured excuses to leave her in the glum German's company so she had no choice but invite him to be seated at her side. He accepted her invitation with alacrity.

"Your company will be thin tonight, Your Majesty," Stockmar said. "I think the Duchess spends time touring her friends' country homes before the Season commences?"

"Yes, Mama is enjoying some time away from her duties at Court," Victoria said dryly, unable to imagine anything less arduous than her mother's negligible 'duties'.

"And Lord Melbourne? He is occupied with the imminent opening of Parliament, I assume."

"Indeed, Lord Melbourne is very busy."

"Another example of his selflessness then, that he devotes an entire weekend to Your Majesty." Victoria darted a sideways glance at the Baron's face, looking for some indication he spoke sarcastically.

"Indeed," she only repeated.

"I expect to see him tonight. The few opportunities he has to regroup from his duties are at these dinners and there too, duty is always uppermost in his mind. You are more fortunate than you know in having him as your advisor and, if I may say, friend. I have emphasized that to your uncle on many occasions when he is inclined, from an excess of affection for you, to think otherwise."

"Why would he think otherwise?" Victoria asked sharply. "Lord Melbourne is a good man and a good friend, who thinks of nothing above his duty and my welfare."

"Exactly what I have said myself, ma'am," Stockmar enthusiastically agreed, his tone looser and less portentous than the more usual professorial accent he employed. "Serving Your Majesty is an inestimable honor, and I like to think that in some measure I have done so in as exemplary a fashion as Lord Melbourne. Your uncle, whom I hold in the highest honor as my sovereign and patron, loves you too dearly and sometimes chafes at the necessary distance between you. That can be the only explanation for the way in which I sometimes detect just a hint of - dare I say jealousy? – when he writes to me of the importance of Lord Melbourne to Your Majesty."

"Jealousy? Why would Uncle Leopold be jealous of Lord Melbourne?"

"Perhaps I spoke out of turn. Your uncle has always thought of you as a daughter to him, and sees himself as a substitute for your own dear father. I think Lord Melbourne's care for your dignity and well-being, that of a daughter, and the way he considers himself a father to you, offends your uncle's sensibilities. I do not mean to say the King denies any of Lord Melbourne's abilities, or his sincere affection for you as the daughter he never had, only that it might be hard for him to think himself supplanted in any way in your affection. Ach," and Stockmar shook his head genially. "You have three old men acting as a father to you in some capacity or another, and eventually when you marry we will all be replaced."

"Lord Melbourne is not my father," Victoria said, wishing she could put more authority into her voice. _Why did Baron Stockmar always make me feel like a child? Because he speaks on behalf of Uncle Leopold? Or because he himself views me as one?_ "And I have never confused him with Uncle Leopold either. You may assure Uncle of our continued filial devotion to him alone."

Stockmar smiled understandingly, and Victoria startled herself with the sudden flash of irritation she felt at his unctuous certainty.

"Perhaps you no longer need a father figure to guide you, ma'am, and that is a good thing. The Baroness considers it your destiny to rule alone, a virgin Queen without male influence, as Elizabeth I ruled."

"I believe Elizabeth had companions. She was surely very attached to Robert Dudley." Victoria felt a momentary thrill of alarm at what sounded like pertness to her own ears.

Stockmar patted her hand soothingly.

"I'm sure you are correct, ma'am. Well, I must be off. I do not want to keep the illustrious Mrs. Norton waiting. She is a devoted friend to your uncle, and it is her friendship with him which earns me a place at her table. Her political _salons_ rival those at Holland House."

"Mrs. Norton?" Victoria said, hearing her own voice rise sharply once more, in almost a squeak. She took a deep breath and concentrated on speaking from her diaphragm. "She – she is not received in society, I thought. How comes she to host political dinners?"

"Ah, Drina – Your Majesty, you are perhaps too young and sheltered to know of such things. But don't let her reputation mislead you – she is well-regarded by every politician in London, and no up-and-comer would ever refuse her invitation. She is so well-connected that your Lord Melbourne relies on her quite heavily to sound out opinions and help him build coalitions. It is how the country is governed, by those agreements made in _salons_ between gentlemen."

"I see," Victoria said, smoothing her skirts and looking away with what she hoped was a dismissive attitude.

"There is another example of how sincerely Lord Melbourne regards your own reputation and your innocence of such matters. He refuses even his dear Caroline's request to be presented at Court, until you are married. Leopold has asked you several times to receive her, I believe, and always Lord Melbourne has refused. Things will be easier all around as your need for him lessens. He has assured Caroline it will be so, and with a great deal of pride in your growing independence."

Stockmar rose and gave his usual Teutonic bow, a stiff little gesture involving the clicking of heels and leaning forward with straight neck so his torso was perpendicular to the floor.

"Ma'am, I wish you a good evening." Victoria could barely force herself to acknowledge him, and jerked her own head in an approximation of a nod.

**

Melbourne immersed himself once more when he returned to London Monday morning. Having depleted his own files of relevant content he seen Tom Young to the Foreign Office and George Anson to the East India House on Leadenhall Street. The Company was notoriously slow-moving in responding to requests of any sort from the government, so Melbourne had to place his hopes in Anson's resourcefulness. He knew that eventually he would reach a standstill and must reach out to the one man whose fingerprints were all over foreign policy, his brother-in-law Henry Temple, Viscount Palmerston. Melbourne liked Palmerston well enough on a personal level but their personalities were so completely at odds that it always felt like work to discuss the simplest matter on which the other man had an opinion – and he had so very many opinions, all of them forcefully expressed with an excess of vigor.

After the initial shock of realizing that he knew virtually nothing of a conflict which had arisen on his watch, under his name, came a more gradual dismay at how seldom his own name appeared in any official record. Nothing reflected his own opinions at the time, no questions to which he had sought answers, no detailed background explanation giving context to the orders presented for his signature. Melbourne had the peculiar sensation that his five years as Prime Minister had virtually been erased from history. What would the legacy of the Melbourne Ministry be?

That question had previously never occurred to him. Melbourne found himself well-satisfied if he kept things steady, stemmed the tide of too-sudden change for change's sake and worked enough backroom magic to weave together consensus and avoid open argument between the parties. He saw now, looking back over his time in office, that he had applied the principles which governed his private life – tranquility, predictable steadiness, avoidance of excess, and a genteel balance of humors – to public service as well. He had endeavored to understand all sides of every issue and chart a careful middle course that would not offend the sensibilities of any faction. Those few occasions which had required him to take a firm stand - in opposition to Brougham, with O'Connell, in the matter of the Swing Riots in '32 - had seen him rise to the occasion, but conflict would never be something he relished.

For the King who had most grudgingly invited him back to form a government the second time Melbourne had been the lesser of available evils. For the Queen who succeeded him, a young untried girl, Melbourne had hoped only to provide a stable, undemanding canvas upon which she could paint her own destiny.

He wanted no personal acclaim – of all things, Melbourne liked least interpersonal conflict and any sort of notoriety. He'd had enough of being the subject of gossip and speculation, and had no desire to be heralded as either the best or the worst politician of his time. He detested public speaking and never wrote for the consumption of others, no treatises on policy, not even journals like Greville.

Now, however, the merest ghost of a notion flickered in some distant corner of his consciousness and he thought, what _if_ – what if his name were to be linked to Victoria's for posterity, what _if_ by some miracle beyond praying for, even if he were a religious man, there was even a child born of their marriage? What then would history have to say of the man who was loved by a Queen? Would history and, more importantly, that dream-child know William Lamb only by the women who seemed to bookend his life – Caro, then Mrs. Norton and finally Queen Victoria?

It was that vaguest of thoughts, a mere shadow compared to the more urgent desire to vindicate himself in _her_ eyes and be the minister she deserved, that propelled him on. That, and the simple satisfaction he had long found in poring over printed words seeking whatever nuggets of incontrovertible fact presented themselves.

The British trepidation regarding expanding Russian influence seemed to Melbourne to lie at the heart of Eastern policy, and even behind that, ambitious imperialism and, always, the fortunes to be made from a monopoly on trade. Russia had, in 1796, approached Napoleon with plans for a joint invasion of British India. While that threat never materialized, the Czars' continual courting of the French in hopes of making an alliance against Britain kept concern for the jewel in the British crown alive.

 _Names_ , Melbourne wanted names – why always did the sparse documentation refer only to British policy makers, Russian threats. As information grew more recent he could read Palmerston's fiery rhetoric even without that man's name attached. Not everyone agreed, not even in Parliament. Melbourne wondered with increasing frustration whether he had been present during those discussions and merely disregarded them as more properly the provenance of the Foreign Office, or whether matters were hammered out _in camera_ while he was in Dublin and then the Home Office.

A more aggressive forward policy was vehemently demanded to protect India and eastern trade routes by maintaining Afghanistan as a neutral buffer zone between India and Russia. When Persia fell under Russian influence in 1828, it renewed demands in the House for active intervention to secure what they called Afghan independence, but would in fact be a measured independence, sympathetic to British interests. In 1837 Persia, with the support of Russia, sent a large army to retake Herat, setting off all kinds of alarms in Whitehall which enflamed Palmerston's ready tendency toward aggression. Those who opposed him in theory, primarily Lord Bentinck, Governor-General of India, advocated new, stronger trade routes along the Indus river, a quicker, cheaper route for British goods which would compete with Russian interests. Bentinck had the backing of the Company and its own governing board. Ranjit Singh, influential, charismatic founder of the Sikh Kingdom, Emily Eden's conquest and one half of "The Maharaja and the Memsahib". Emily had written extensively of his colorful court to Melbourne and to others, and Melbourne now wondered whether he had succumbed to his friend's colorful depictions of a charming adventure and ignored the far larger issues at play. Singh had played false, according to one interpretation, or had pursued his own national interests over that of the British, according to another, time after time yet he remained a favorite of the Governor-General, George Eden.

What little underlying sense Melbourne had been able to glean so far seemed to be that politicians and businessmen, for their own interests, perhaps even out of a patriot fervor to expand British influence and build an empire, devised their untried strategies and then demanded the military carry them out. None of them, Palmerston included, had either command experience or a solid understanding of military campaigning. Wellington had opined as early as 1836 that British troops had better stay out of Afghanistan, or if they went in, must go in with the full commitment of the nation. And that meant a great outlay of cash, to build and sustain the long precarious supply chain needed to support troops in a hostile environment, and above all to send a large enough force for long enough to have at least a reasonable chance of success.

Over and over Melbourne read of the demands, then pleas, from generals in the field for more men, more supplies, more money. Over and over he knew that Parliament – his own party primarily, for the Whigs, apart from Palmerston, resisted becoming embroiled in foreign adventuring – denied the funds needed to support and supply the army. Regiments such as Captain Cameron's were rotated in and out after stays of several months, too little a time in country to gain any real understanding of the adversary they faced, so that only a few battle-hardened veterans such as Cameron himself realized what they were up against. Still Auckland and the politicians in India persisted in espousing a belief that British soldiers would be received as heroes in the mountainous, fiercely independent tribal regions and denied all evidence that instead poorly armed, poorly prepared British soldiers were sent into regions dominated by insurgent fighters who swept down by night to pick them off one by one.

Melbourne considered there to be more factual content in one letter from Victoria's impudent lad than from all the dispatches submitted by Auckland to Palmerston's Foreign Office. He had no firm idea what could be done, whether they should stay or retreat, but what he had already determined was, if those boys were expected to serve their country in a hostile region, they deserved every advantage in munitions, supplies and adequate troop strength. The problem, Melbourne knew, would not be the Tories. Conservatives were ever eager to pour money into the military, as much as they resented taxation for every other cause. His battle would be fought with his own party. He himself had spoken out against the last appropriations bill, and would have to reverse course now. He could see no other way. Even if they were to pull out tomorrow, someone – and he resolved to consult Wellington – would have to devise a means of safely doing so without either leaving the troops open to ambush in retreat or send a signal to their foes in the region that Britain had weakened and would no longer resist attempts to pluck away the wealth of India and the Chinese ports.

 _But first, I will discuss this all with the Queen and offer my findings and recommendations. I will acknowledge the limitations of my understanding of military matters and suggest that we bring in Wellington as well as Palmerston. And above all, I will not make the mistake of either ignoring unpleasantness myself or shielding her from it, any more than I would have thought to shield her uncle before her_.

It was nearly seven and only the growling of his stomach reminded Melbourne he had a dinner engagement. One which, when he thought about it, might provide just the opportunity to begin the process of making tentative alliances across the aisle, so that increased military appropriations for the Indian theatre might be one of the first things Parliament reviewed.

He gave no thought to where the dinner would be held, or who his hostess would be, for Caroline Norton's dinners were nearly as ubiquitous as Lady Holland's during the political season. If he had considered the matter beyond that, or given a moment's consideration to any lingering personal connection, it would have been perhaps only to think that if he were to avoid every woman with whom he had engaged in an _affaire d'amour_ he would never go out into society at all.

**

He was one of the last to arrive, but his arrival was celebrated nonetheless. Melbourne made his way around the drawing room, greeting old friends and political rivals alike, sparing a few minutes' conversation sprinkled with aphorism to those protégés their hostess brought to his attention. They seemed younger and younger, he noted wryly, not unaware it was a perception common to those of a certain age.

It did not surprise Melbourne to encounter Stockmar. The man was everywhere, and his connection to Mrs. Norton through her long – some said intimate – friendship with Stockmar's patron, the King of the Belgians. Leopold never failed to call at Caroline's house each time he visited London and she had often been a weekend guest at Clermont, his Sussex estate. His relationship with the man was cordial enough – Melbourne privately loathed him, and doubted the other man felt likewise – but they had, for the sake of the Queen, exercised gentlemanly restraint in their frequent interactions, even to heaping gratuitous praise each on the other.

As was their custom, Melbourne and Stockmar greeted each other like the best of friends. After dinner, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Melbourne dawdled until the place Caroline always reserved for him on the small two-person sofa could be filled by one of her eager young swains. Stockmar likewise hung back, surveying the room with something like a smirk.

"I think you wisely escaped the trap set for you there, Lord Melbourne," Stockmar said, his remark needing no elaboration. "My own master has been evading that particular web for years. To his continued success in that regard…and yours." He lifted his glass in a sardonic toast and Melbourne responded in kind.

"Still, it must be a refreshing change for you, to be free of the rather…dare I say _insipid_ atmosphere of the Court for one night. I find it to be so."

"I would not say insipid. Her Majesty is a delightful young woman and quite properly maintains at atmosphere of decorum. She is, as I don't have to tell you, a refreshingly unjaded companion."

"Yes, of course. When she is married and no longer has the constraints of maidenhood imposed upon her, I am sure she will begin to show herself to advantage in society."

Melbourne was not pleased to hear any criticism, no matter how circumspect, of the Queen, and looked away as though someone across the room caught his attention.

"Her Majesty was alone with her younger court, her – maids-of-honor, I think the girls of her own age are called, and it was quite refreshing to see her shed the cares of her position and behave only as a young woman of twenty should."

"Twenty-one, as of this past May, I believe, Baron," Melbourne felt compelled to correct, in a mild tone.

Stockmar went on without noting the correction, his own voice equally mild, warm with affection.

"Ah, youth, Lord Melbourne." He knew without looking around from whom came that wistful sigh. "It did my heart good to see her so carefree. I might even say 'happy'. And that is due entirely to you."

Melbourne felt himself stiffen at those words, coming from the Baron. Despite the overt cordiality, Melbourne trusted him less than he would a poisonous viper in their midst. Not to be outdone, he showed Stockmar his most appealing smile in return.

"You give me too much credit, Baron," Melbourne responded smoothly.

"You are not given nearly the credit you deserve, Lord Melbourne." Baron Stockmar's voice dropped to a mournful, confiding whisper. "I know that Her Majesty's childhood was not easy. The Duchess is a devoted mother at heart, but her attention and affection were sadly diverted. And…"

Stockmar leaned in so that Melbourne could clearly see each pore on his nose, could smell on his breath the caraway that he chewed.

"I would never speak ill of my patron, the best, the most generous master but…" he allowed his voice to trail off so that Melbourne had to strain to hear. An old orator's trick, Melbourne knew, but an effective one nonetheless.

"…even from one who should have acted with the disinterested selflessness of a father, Her Majesty has been treated as a pawn, a way for her uncle to satisfy those dynastic ambitions which otherwise would have been blighted when Her Royal Highness passed away. I'm not saying His Majesty does not harbor a sincere regard for the Queen. He does, most definitely. But I think only you have ever, in that poor child's life, cared for her without any self-interest, have showed her the pure tender love of a father without thought of personal gain."

Stockmar took a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes, as Melbourne watched and listened, incredulous.

"Ach, please, I beg you, forget what I say, it is merely one sentimental old man talking to another. But know that from the bottom of my heart I honor you for giving Her Majesty the self-confidence, the – what the French say, _joie de vivre_ – she did not receive from her true family. When she goes on to be a great queen it will be entirely due to you acting in _loco parentis_ for her good and the good of the nation. And for that, sir, you have my undying respect and appreciation."

Stockmar cleared his throat, clearly intending to convey that he was overcome by his own emotional outburst, and clapped Melbourne on the arm in a manly show of affectionate regard.

"If ever my master might seem to be, not critical but perhaps not entirely mindful of the special place you hold in the Queen's affections, I daresay it would be from jealousy."

"Jealousy?" Melbourne said perhaps more sharply than he'd intended, for the word seemed so peculiar in context.

"Jealousy, Lord Melbourne. He thought of himself as a father to the Queen during her years at Kensington, so when she writes to him full of her affection for you and describes you as _fatherly_ , even calling _you_ the father she never had – you understand that it might not be what he wants to hear. I beg you to excuse him on that score. Know that some of us, in closer proximity to Her Majesty, are grateful rather than the contrary, that she feels toward you what any devoted daughter would feel for her father. Of course, I don't mean to imply you encouraged such affection. It is a testament to her need for a selfless male protector to lean on, and your own good nature in honoring that without taking advantage."

Once more Stockmar dabbed at his eyes, then extended his arm in a manly embrace, patting Melbourne on the back for good measure.

Caroline Norton had, Melbourne saw, been scanning the room for him and when she caught his eye and beckoned he forgot his earlier reluctance to join her.

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patience...patience...and have faith in happy endings, at least in this universe.

Christian Stockmar reviewed the situation carefully. Now that the seeds of doubt had been planted, something Stockmar congratulated himself had been done with masterful tact and misdirection, his only real adversary was _time_. Much could happen yet to upset his design. It was essential they each remain alone with their doubts and not confide in the other until their resolve hardened. A clumsier man, one less well versed in the workings of the human psyche, might have acted with a heavy hand. A less sophisticated man might have allowed his own voice to be the one they heard. Instead, his oblique suggestions had done exactly what they were meant to do, blend seamlessly with the voice that really counted, the one that sowed self-doubt and confusion…that of the _self_.

In another decade, in a moment of braggadocio, Stockmar would attempt to explain his influence over persons in high positions, " _It was a clever stroke, to have originally studied medicine; without the knowledge thus acquired, without the psychological and physiological experiences which I thus obtained, my savoir faire would often have gone a begging_."  1

Fear, that was the emotion which motivated all men, and that included women, of course. His study of the psyche had convinced Stockmar long ago that above all, fear was the great motivator. Fear of loneliness, loss of love, loss of security, fear of the disdain of one's fellow man, fear of poverty, fear of vulnerability, there were a million things to fear, and the key to unlocking a mind was to discern that mind's greatest fear. Rarely was it something as simple as fear of death or physical pain. The human mind – or soul, if one were to speak in such terms – was far subtler than that. Understand what forces shaped the personality, and you could understand what that personality feared most. From there, it was only a matter of feeding that fear, so subtly that it didn't feel like an intrusion at all, merely external reinforcement of what was already there, whispering its constant warnings.

Lord Melbourne, in this instance, presented little challenge. His history was too well known, his character and personality too well-defined. A man with a bold, beautiful and notoriously unchaste mother who nonetheless doted on him, then the sad tale of his wife's public infidelities and his own tolerant response. Two celebrated adulteries of his own, brought to court when his star had risen highest politically. And of course, what some might view as laziness or disinterest during his time in office, but instead was typically Melbourne – quiet diligence and hard work concealed under that famed insouciance, the whimsical nonsense of blowing a feather about during debate and receiving delegations in his nightshirt – only confirmed Stockmar's opinion of a brilliant, sensitive mind, one that cared deeply and was hungry to be loved but afraid to admit it and risk rebuff, idealism imperfectly veiled by a layer of fashionable cynicism.

Alexandrina Victoria, a mere child, posed more of a challenge, with less history to go on. Yet Stockmar was privy to all her uncle knew, her stubborn defiance of Conroy, her refusal to submit, even the wild raging temper tantrums which had once consumed her. Louise Lehzen had successfully managed the tempestuous child, and her innate understanding – primitive as it was, compared to that of a physician of the mind – earned Stockmar's grudging respect.

Even as an omnipotent young woman, with her great enemy Conroy coldly banished, Alexandrina – now Victoria – treated her mother with icy disdain and that, more than anything else, provided the key to understanding what underlying fear drove the little Queen. _After all, it was a story as old as time, same-sex children craving that parent's entire devotion while at the same time feeling a deep-seated rivalry._ A little girl, the Baron knew, did not have to harbor any fond feelings for the father figure in her childhood to feel a deep-seated jealous rage for a mother who was beautiful, desirable and entirely obsessed with the man who bullied and dominated both mother and daughter. Add to that the rumor, never substantiated, that the princess had witnessed her mother and the hated Conroy engaged in carnal activity, and Stockmar thought he had the key to understanding.

 _Of course, Victoria did not see Lord Melbourne as a father –_ that _nonsensical suggestion only worked on Melbourne himself. No, Victoria saw herself as that lonely little girl, never the equal of a beautiful grown woman, and all it would take was the least push to suggest that indeed her Lord M likewise would only ever see her as a little girl, never the beautiful woman she had once yearned to be._

Pondering the precarious razor's edge upon which his current stratagem balanced, Stockmar once more ran through the long list of variables and contingencies. Preparedness was important, but of even greater importance was finesse, and the wisdom to know precisely when to step deftly out of the way and let human nature proceed. It was important to maintain the goodwill he had cultivated. He had no enemies and many friends in high places in the English government, precisely because he exercised tact and restraint and above all never, ever left himself open to even the suspicion of interference and manipulation. They were all chess pieces on a board he controlled, but he would never allow his mask of benign goodwill to drop.

**

Victoria waited for the inevitable emotional storm. She locked herself in her bedchamber and refused to emerge, sending word that she was ill and would see no one. Lehzen came at once, bringing nostrums and tender concern; the Queen sent her away. Miss Skerrett tapped at the door, offering water and towels and a change of gown; the Queen sent her away. The Duchess of Kent bestirred herself, as soon as she returned from her holiday, to attempt to see her daughter; Victoria sent her away.

No tears came, no desperate sobbing, no great tearing cries. She felt preternaturally calm, unable _yet_ to allow herself to think, wanting only to sleep. She sent for laudanum, complaining of a sick headache, and was readily believed, for the Duchess herself suffered frequent migraines. The drug allowed Victoria to float, neither asleep nor fully awake, for an entire day and then her stomach revolted, and she could take no more.

Finally, on the afternoon of the second day, Victoria rose from bed and clumsily braided her own hair only to spare herself the annoyance of its soft strands brushing her face. She sat at her dressing table and stared at her own reflection contemptuously. No remarkable prettiness like Wilhelmina or Fanny, no striking definition like Harriet. She pulled her gown over her head and examined her naked shape. Too short, of course – no grace or elegance when one was _short_. Angrily, Victoria turned away and pulled her gown back on, unable to bear the sight any longer. _I look like a child!_ she thought, despising herself. Remembering those things he had done to her, the way he had looked at her, as though he saw only her, as though he loved and wanted her. 

Victoria's heart filled to overflowing with love. She was not angry at him – how could she be, when even by coming to her as he had, acceding to her desperate, repeated protestations of love and responding with all the care and affection he could show, Lord M's goodness, his kindness and care for her had made him pretend she was his equal, a beautiful woman that he could love and even marry?

It never occurred to Victoria that he might have an ulterior motive in doing so. Lord M refused the Garter, refused an earldom, refused any signal honor and she knew him well enough to understand that any sort of public acclaim, any power or precedence which might come from marrying the queen would be anathema to him. No, he had cared for her with tender compassion because he loved her as the wisest of teachers, the kindest of friends – she refused to use the word 'father' because it was so patently ridiculous - and finally, when her importunate pursuit convinced him she would not be happy otherwise, he had made the ultimate sacrifice.

Even the thought that those things he had shown her, had been done from an excess of kindness and generosity, even _pity_ , made Victoria burn with shame, but she could not be sorry. Never again would she know such bliss, such perfect happiness. But she would release him from his promise, extracted under duress. She would thank him – if words could be found to express such a sentiment – for letting her feel like a woman, beautiful, desirable, loved, and she would release him, asking only that things return to they way they had been before she ruined everything. Her minister, her mentor, her greatest friend. She would be content and grateful for that and release him from the rest, so he could find his own happiness, with a woman who deserved him.

 _But not yet._ Victoria could not bear facing him, or in truth facing the rest of her life, just yet. She needed to rest, to rebuild her courage and some semblance of dignity and composure. And so, she sent word that she was ill for a third day.

 **

Parliament was due to open in a week. When Melbourne tore open the note from the palace, written in a careful hand he recognized as Baroness Lehzen's, and saw that the Queen was unwell he felt only mild concern. Even a momentary sense of relief, if her mystery ailment stemmed from her monthly inconvenience. He wondered why she had not written herself and took a moment to scrawl out a note for the page to return.

_Lord Melbourne begs the Her Majesty to accept his regret and prays for her speedy return to good health. Lord Melbourne will call on Her Majesty tomorrow at the usual time. – Melbourne_

He took advantage of the free hours to visit the Duke of Wellington and broach the subject of his new interest in military affairs.

In the back of his mind Melbourne still heard echoes of that pompous ass, Stockmar, intoning his praise. _If Victoria had written such things to her uncle, it was still early days and she had no vocabulary for the feelings she was experiencing._ His Victoria, his precious girl, had not even the whispered confidences of other young women, more experienced in such matters. She was an innocent, but even in her virgin naivete had not long regarded him as anything akin to a father. Melbourne recalled so many times she had revealed her burgeoning, quite unfilial, feelings, emotions he tried to deny in himself even as she, his brave girl, was admitting her own.

 _Had something changed? Was it that soldier? A man far closer to her own age and, if his reckless words to his sovereign were any indication, with the sort of daring disregard for convention that had always attracted Caro?_ Did _she suddenly see him as he was, a man considerably older than her own mother? Had even their lovemaking awakened something in her that now craved a younger man?_

When a second note arrived on the second day Melbourne's unease grew exponentially. Surely if she was seriously ill he would be informed as Prime Minister? Her government had the right to know if the Queen's health was impaired. Melbourne considered the alternative – what if something happened which made her unwilling to face _him_? What could that be? Could – no, the idea was so outrageous, he should dismiss it out of hand – _could she have taken offense to his presence at Caroline Norton's dinner?_ Stockmar was there and might well have mentioned it; Victoria had only recently questioned him about that interlude, had even asked whether he had _loved_ the Norton woman. The notion that such a trivial matter could affect Victoria so deeply seemed unlikely. Surely she knew that he worshiped her?

And yet – and yet, Victoria was so unaccountably deeply in love, for the first time, with little notion of the society she ruled and how meaningless such purely sexual liaisons were. She had been carefully reared by a puritanical pastor's spinster daughter; surely the careless promiscuity of the world Melbourne inhabited was no part of her education. Even imagining that she could be in distress because of such an insignificant matter made his heart ache to protect her, to hold and comfort her and, if it was indeed such an insurmountable issue, to kiss away her hurt and promise to do better in considering her feelings.

He composed a second note, choosing his words with care, aware that they might be seen by eyes other than hers.

_Lord Melbourne begs Her Majesty accept his greetings, and his affectionate regard. Although Your Majesty is at present unable to receive visitors, Lord Melbourne begs that he be allowed to call on Your Majesty as her most devoted minister. If there are matters which trouble Your Majesty, Lord Melbourne requests the opportunity to alleviate any concern and restore your peace. – Melbourne_

Or, Melbourne thought, if she finds she has mistaken her feelings or they have undergone a change, then somehow, I must make her easy in telling me. I am still her minister and servant and, I hope, her friend. _If I can salvage that much_ , he told himself, _I can bear it._

**

Victoria read the second note from his hand. Lehzen frowned, troubled, watching her as she read it and set it aside.

"Drina, you must eat something. You threw up your medicine because your stomach is empty. Come, let me brush your hair and wipe your face and hands. You will feel better." Victoria wanted to reject the offer of comfort, but the familiar voice, the dry cool hand on her forehead, felt so good, so reminiscent of those moments in childhood when she felt safe and cherished by her governess at least. She relented and, as the brush was drawn through her hair, gently working through the tangles without pain, Victoria felt tears coursing down her cheeks.

 _Lehzen had been right, of course. Some plain buttered bread, a cup of broth, and her stomach settled itself enough to keep down another dose of laudanum._ Victoria slept without dreaming until the sun was well up in the sky. When she awoke it was to the Baroness setting a tray beside her bed.

"Have you been here all night?" Victoria asked when she stumbled back from the privy. The Baroness only inclined her head.

"You must rest, Lehzen. Truly, I am fine. Just…I think the headache is getting better. I probably caught a touch of ague without realizing. Leave me now. Tomorrow I will resume my duties. Only – before you go, please write Lord M and tell him so. I will not receive him today."

"Tomorrow? There will be gossip if you stay in bed another day. At least let the doctor see you so he can let them know that you are mending well and there is nothing serious troubling you."

"Tomorrow. Only – Lehzen, please write one more letter. To my cousins. Tell my cousin Albert that I wish him to come to England for a visit as soon as it can be arranged. There is a matter I wish to discuss with him."

Baroness Lehzen's lips tightened to a thin line.

"Drina, you realize that if we do that he will think that you intend to propose marriage to him? And you have just put that matter to rest."

"Precisely, Lehzen. I intend to propose marriage to him."

"But – Your Majesty, I thought you intended to rule alone. Like the great Queen Elizabeth. And – Albert! Of the two brothers, he will suit you least. Ernst is cheerful and amusing and not so critical. You could learn to love him and enjoy marriage, if marry you must."

"I don't wish to enjoy marriage, Lehzen. I wish to do it and get it over with and be left in peace and Albert will do that. He wishes to marry me as little as I want to marry him. We will suit very well in that regard. That is all, Lehzen. You may withdraw."

* * *

 1 Memoirs of Baron Stockmar, available at internetarchive.org


	15. Chapter 15

_Princess Royal, Vicky, Queen Victoria's Firstborn Child_

The Queen's hair was carefully arranged in a new, looser fashion, deceptively simple in appearance but entailing more effort by her dresser and more patience from Victoria. She chose a new frock, with a near-shoulder-baring neckline that verged on too daring for day wear and tight-fitting three-quarter length sleeves. When Miss Skerrett tightened her stays, Victoria felt her heart gallop in alarm, but the unpleasant procedure occasioned no remark.

She looked at herself critically from all angles in the pier glass and felt nominally reassured. The seafoam green was new and quite becoming and she accepted her usual touchstone with resignation. _What would Lord M think?_ would always be her heart's refrain. Victoria squared her shoulders and took as deep a breath as the tight-laced corset would allow.

Lord Melbourne was waiting in her study. Usually he would have gone to the morning room at this hour, to partake of coffee and pastries and visit with her ladies until the Queen arrived. So he, too, was anxious to begin.

"Your Majesty," the words came in that achingly familiar voice, caressing, with a lilt that suggested subdued amusement. "Victoria." He said her name more softly, nearly a whisper, and she forced herself to look up at him, to meet his eyes. She had thought her features must remain stiff, composed into a mask of pleasant detachment, but already her heart betrayed her. Victoria smiled.

This, then. She had smiled at him every morning for so very long a time; he had greeted her in just this way. There was no reason it all must change. She need only undo the mistake she had made, the unintended harm she had done this good, kind man in demanding what she had no right to ask, what he did not have to give.

"Lord Me- Lord M." Victoria felt the spark when his lips brushed her knuckles. "I expect we have much work to do today, to make up for the time I was…not feeling quite the thing."

"You are better, ma'am?" His fine eyes showed concern, and that look of tender affection that she must always see to live. If it was the expression a father showed his child, so be it. She would be grateful for that and cease reaching for more.

"I am, Lord M, thank you. I wasn't so very ill, as you see."

"I do indeed see. You look very well now, and I feel better for having seen you with my own eyes."

He had not released her hand after kneeling to kiss it and so they stood. Victoria finally, gently and with regret, withdrew it and went to sit behind her desk, needing that sturdy piece of furniture between them like a barrier.

Melbourne went through that week's Army lists quickly, and the various parish appointments with like expediency. Then he withdrew a full sheet, carefully written, and handed it to her.

"I have much more to learn, but the one incontrovertible argument your soldier friend made, I can do something about. Or try." Melbourne explained that he had met with Wellington, who heartily embraced his new-found recognition, and Palmerston, who had surprisingly been indifferent, as well as a few key members of his own party.

"As you might imagine, they were not receptive. Nonetheless, I believe this is the right thing to do and if it costs me the support of my own party, I will argue for a substantial immediate increase in military spending to provide our men the munitions and supplies they need, along with adequate troop strength to ensure they are not sacrificed uselessly for a political end. Wellington will not become involved directly, but he has pointed me to the right man for the job, a general already in the field."

"If you lose the support of your own party, will support from the Tories make up for it?"

"To get this bill passed without delay? Yes, I believe it will. But…you understand, without the confidence of my own party, it will hasten the end of my ministry. If I argue this on the first day of this session, there could be a general election called as early as October."

"And then – do you mean -?" Victoria understood what it meant; it was what they had talked about when planning the future for which she had longed.

Melbourne nodded, his eyes tender and so very loving.

 _Is this what it would have been like, had my father lived? Would I have taken such affection for granted? If he had a daughter of his own, he would not need me, would not need to look at me this way._ Victoria looked away because she could not bear it, that it could be another girl he looked at with such tenderness.

"It means that I would offer you my resignation. I would no longer be your Prime Minister."

Victoria took a long ragged breath and squared her shoulders. Without knowing it, her jaw tightened as well, and her visage changed, growing harder and more distant, losing the softness of girlhood entirely.

For all her determination, words did not come. Instead Victoria stood and walked to the window, turning her back on him to buy herself time, time to think, time to find the right thing to say.

"You have been an excellent Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, and we should be sorry to accept your resignation. You have been a good friend to us as well, the best, most patient of teachers. A – a father could not have done more to make me feel safe and give me confidence. You have been…a father to me."

Victoria was relieved that she could speak so calmly, that her tone held just the right note of sincerity. She had been listening so closely to herself that she had failed to attend to him. Finally, curiosity compelled her to turn around.

_Dear Lord M – he looked so grave, attending to her so seriously. His expression held so much understanding!_

"I see," he said slowly. "Your recent illness gave you the time I once suggested you should take, it would seem. Illness can bring a certain clarity, I've found. Did you find it so with you?" Underneath his soft, careful speech Victoria thought she detected a hint of something less familiar.

"I – I owe you an apology. No, I must beg your forgiveness, Lord Melbourne," Victoria said more urgently, and some of her real distress slipped through. Instantly Melbourne stepped toward her, all concern. He reached for her hand and held it between his.

"No, no – do not say so. You mistook your feelings and are now making it right, and that is not an easy step for anyone to take. I once said you had courage, ma'am," and his mouth twisted into a smile of reminiscence.

"You have been all kindness to me, Lord Melbourne, and you have been my friend, my best friend, my only friend, and I value you more than I can ever express. You are the best of companions and I like no one better than I like you. Only…I…I confused that with something else and as a result I…made demands on you…put you into a position that…you felt you could not refuse me and that was very wrong of me. I do not wish to lose your friendship ever, or your support, only –"

"Shush, Vic- ma'am. You need not say more. I understand you all too well. Pray, do not be so distressed. You will always have in me your most devoted servant and, if you wish for it, friend."

Melbourne released her hand and then it was his turn to walk away, to turn his back on her. Victoria took no offense. She was, in fact, relieved that he had removed himself from painful proximity. She looked at his figure, his shoulders in the fine black broadcloth coat that showed his physique to such advantage, his legs encased in tight breeches, and she wanted more than she ever wanted anything in her life to run to him, to throw herself at his back and press herself tightly against him, to cling to him as though to a life preserver. She thought of the body under that exquisite tailoring, the wonders he had shown her, the power she'd felt in bringing him springing to life, holding him in her hand, in her very _self._ And she thought how that would never, could never, be the same with anyone else. But if he didn't love her the way she loved him, if he only married her from duty or compassion or kindness or _fatherly_ affection, how much worse that would be! It could never be the way it had been when she believed that their souls were one, their hearts joined, but she would always have his friendship, his wisdom, his kindness. And she would always have something else of him as well.

Victoria's hand dropped to her waist and her fingers splayed open so that her palm pressed protectively against what lay within.

"You have decided to reign alone, as your predecessor Elizabeth did? As Baroness Lehzen hoped?" When Melbourne turned back to face her he was composed, and the painful awkwardness between them had passed. "I do not think you will be happy alone, never marrying. If ever a woman was – " he stopped suddenly, and Victoria wondered what he would have said. Then she remembered. She was not done, she had something else to tell him.

"I have sent for my cousin Albert. I intend to ask him to marry me and he will accept. He has no choice, no other prospects, and his father is penniless. We will be married in a month."

* * *

**_The Night Before_ **

Victoria had taken another draught of the liquid medicine which allowed her some semblance of peace, enough tranquility to consider all that must be done. When the maids congregated outside her door she snapped at them and sent them away. When Lehzen returned later, with yet another response from Lord Melbourne, she refused her entry. The third time a hand rattled the door Victoria lay in silence, determined to wait out the troublesome intrusion by pretending sleep.

Instead of leaving, she heard the latch click and knew that she would be bothered once again when all she wanted was one more day of peace before she resumed…the rest of her life.

No one spoke but Victoria knew instantly that it was her mother who had entered. The scent of the powder she wore on her face, something else, some indefinable essence that bound them, mother and child, despite the lack of any real tie?

After a time, the silent presence began to feel oddly comforting, peculiar since Victoria could not remember a time she felt solace in her mother's company. She was aware of a sudden urge to talk and wished that they had the sort of relationship which might allow her to confide her troubles and be certain of understanding and support.

Finally, after minutes, or perhaps hours, Victoria did speak, in a small hollow voice.

"I have sent for Albert, Mama. I will ask him to marry me." Her mother did not immediately respond. When she did, her first words shocked Victoria.

"He has not been sent for yet. There is time to reconsider."

Victoria rolled over and pushed herself up in bed. "I asked Lehzen to write him this morning. He might be here by next week."

"No letter went to your cousin today, Drina. You still have time. There is no rush. Or is there?" Even in the darkness, Victoria could see her mother's face, but she could not decipher the expression there. _Trepidation? Determination?_

"I don't know what you mean. I've been intended to marry Albert for years. It is time."

"Talk to me, Drina. Tell me, why now? And why did Baron Stockmar write my brother weeks ago to have Albert ready to sail?"

Victoria sighed irritably. "You speak in riddles, Mama. There is nothing to talk about. Baron Stockmar has long been advocating my marriage to Albert. You know that."

"That man is very pleased with himself. I _know_ him, Drina. He thinks he has brought about this change in you."

"Mama, leave me. I will rise tomorrow at my usual time and see you at breakfast. I will resume my duties."

"You will see Lord Melbourne? You will tell him of your decision to marry?"

"Why – why would I tell him I plan to ask Albert to marry me?"

"He is your Prime Minister, Drina. Of course, you must tell him. Why? Do you not want to?"

Victoria turned around to face her mother fully. Victoire's pretty face bore an expression of cautiousness and determination, and something in that made Victoria feel sudden shame. _Do I frighten her? My own mother? Have I been so harsh?_

"Drina, I am your mother.  I love you and I don't want you to make a mistake you will regret. I am also a woman, and not stupid. Do you think I do not know that you have been – your relationship with Lord Melbourne has crossed a line into something more than…than some would say it should be." As Victoria stared, her own expression harsh to hide the hammering of her heart, the fear rising in her throat, she saw something like raw fear take hold of her mother's usually pretty face. The Duchess was struggling and Victoria did nothing to reassure her.

 "Are you with child?"

Victoria gasped at the words coming from her mother's lips, spoken aloud.

"Baron Stockmar bribes the servants. I'm sure others do too, it is the way of a palace, but that man bribes your maids, your most personal attendants. My own Lizanne has told me that one of your maids –"

"Not Skerrett?" Victoria asked sharply.

"No, the other one, the one who looks like a fox, with the bushy red tail – the girl who washes your laundry –" Victoire looked pained, at the unseemliness of what she described next. Victoria's mouth dropped open, aghast at the perfidy all around her.

"I know you can send me away, make me go back to Germany penniless. You can make my life here even lonelier than it is now. But you can not make me stop before I say what I must, do what I must to help you."

"How can _you_ help me, Mama?" Victoria heard the hard contempt in her own voice and was not proud of it but their enmity was too firmly entrenched for her to trust her mother with a matter so close to her own heart.

"I think he must know –"

"No!" Victoria shouted and slapped her hand on her own leg with a loud crack. "No! You will tell no one what you suspect. I will marry my cousin. He will understand it's the best bargain he can make."

"Why, Drina? Why will you not give yourself a chance? Do you think he will refuse? You are not a scullery maid, that a fine gentleman amuses himself with and then walks away. You are a Queen! And – and of course he loves you. Anyone with eyes can see he is besotted with you."

Her mother's words made her heart skip a beat. _If only that were true!_ And she flushed deeply, realizing she had spoken aloud.

"Maybe I am wrong. I was wrong before. I did not think – I never thought – that Sir John would so easily abandon me, would not fight for me, would not beg me to go with him. Maybe you are right, and I am wrong, but can you afford to never be certain?"

Suddenly Victoria felt all feeling leach out of her, so that she felt boneless with fatigue.

"Thank you for your concern, Mama. You will of course say nothing to anyone of these…fanciful suspicions. Good night."

Victoria knew that she should offer her mother an embrace, should force herself to at least give a reassuring smile. She did appreciate her mother reaching out across the gulf dividing them and resolved to begin again. But not just now. Now she wanted to be alone, to lay in the dark and imagine she could smell him on her pillow, feel his hands on her skin, the solid warmth of his body beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the end of what some believe might have really happened, in broad strokes and with much artistic license, yet truth at its core, based on a careful study of circumstantial evidence. Next...how to correct history and make it all right.


	16. Chapter 16

There was no shortage of work to be done and Lord Melbourne threw himself into it with new enthusiasm and a real determination to see things accomplished which took his colleagues by surprise. Generally viewed as a lackadaisical if well-liked minister and master, Melbourne surprised everyone with his attention to detail and recall of minutiae from his voluminous reading.  Sir John Keane, lately retired from the Army of the Indus and rewarded with a peerage and pension of £2000 a year, was summoned up from his Hampshire estate to give a firsthand accounting of his experiences in the field.

Melbourne was determined, with all the zeal of a late convert, to get to the bottom of how a muddled attempt at regime change in Afghanistan had come about. Had the opposition set itself on the same course it might have fairly been seen as an attempt to sling mud at the second Melbourne Ministry top to bottom. No one quite knew what to make of a Premier so earnestly uncovering the malfeasance of his own administration.

The commander-in-chief of British forces, Sir Henry Fane, did not approve the policy of military intervention but he was the first to sound a refrain that would be repeated by everyone from Arthur Wellesley to Captain Cameron, that if military intervention were to happen, half measures would not suffice.

Shah Soojah was to pay for the cost of 6,000 Sikh cavalry and plunder taken from the deposed Dost Mohammad was to underwrite the cost of the military excursion and Parliament was assured the British treasury would not be committed to financial support.

Lord Auckland issued the Simla Manifesto, ostensibly speaking for the Queen, justifying the British invasion and goal of putting Shah Soojah on the throne. Melbourne was well-acquainted with Auckland's official voice and he had no doubt the elegant text, full of sophistry, originated with William Macnaughten. What had his Foreign Minister been doing? Why was this outrageous declaration of war – for that was what it in effect was – been scrutinized more thoroughly before it was issued as official policy. For that reason alone he was determined to clean up any mess left behind when his government folded.

His name was unattached to any official record, any diplomatic correspondence, any directions sent from the Foreign Office. Lord Palmerston once made the mistake of pointing out that Melbourne's hands were clean and thus, he should leave well enough alone and stay out of it.

"You don't think my name _should_ be attached to this fiasco, the war in Afghanistan? It happened under my authority, while I was at the head of government and I will not hide behind such specious argument. It says more about me that I am _not_ mentioned in any capacity. I do not seek to avoid culpability and by God, if my name isn't attached to the making of this mess, it will be attached to the clean up."

For the first time in their long acquaintance Melbourne's forbearance abandoned him and he nearly came to blows with the big lounging bully married to his sister. Henry Temple's patriotism could not be challenged, but his aggressive warmongering could be and would be, so long as he served at the pleasure of the Queen and her chief minister and Melbourne told him as much.

For an instant he thought he might get the fight he was anticipating, but instead Palmerston threw up his hand and took two steps backward.

"I'm not going to fight with you, William. Do what you must, and I'll back you if I can. All this comes about because of _her_ in some way or another, I don't doubt it. This isn't you, this sudden interest in affairs that never concerned you before, and I don't believe it's a late attempt to rehabilitate your legacy." Henry Temple, his bushy blond brows moving as he stared down William Lamb, lost all trace of his usually genial, if overpowering, manner.

"Whatever drives you, William – don't alienate your friends in pursuit of some ideal you've picked up from a figurehead Queen with no notion of _realpolitik_."

Melbourne still stood, fists clenched, when Palmerston stalked out of the chamber.

Superficially at least, things had reverted to the way they once were before life grew complex. He visited the palace daily; they went through the dispatches together while Victoria listened attentively, sometimes even taking notes, engrossed in his explanations. She dimpled at his pleasantries, laughed aloud when some pithy remark struck her fancy and generally seemed at ease and unguarded. Discounting the fevered weeks of intimacy which seemed more and more like a dream, Melbourne thought to any observer the Queen would have seemed herself in company with her favored adviser. He felt the difference on a level far deeper than mere superficiality. The _frisson_ of unspoken attraction which had sizzled between them for so long was no longer apparent and when his eyes fell on hers Victoria's were somehow hooded, despite being open wide. She hid a part of herself away where he could not reach her, and he knew that something even more precious than the brief magical interlude had been lost.

His own feelings had not changed, could not change. Melbourne loved her with a single-minded devotion that prevented him from breaching the glass wall she had constructed. He loved her too well to cause her any distress – any _more_ distress – and even the thought of forcing his own emotions on her sickened him. She was his precious girl, infinitely precious, worth more than all his peace of mind, worth every tear he shed and more, and he would do what he could where he could, near or far, to ensure her own contentment.

His resolution might have been easier to bear if he saw any sign she _was_ happy. She did not appear _unhappy_ , or discontent – she did not seem to allow herself any sentiment at all. Her affianced bridegroom would arrive any day, yet she displayed no bride's giddiness, no anticipatory pleasure. Melbourne thought he could not bear it if she had – but he could not bear it that she did not, either. Seeing her with all trace of girlishness gone, no spark in her eyes, none of that effervescent _life_ which had radiated from her before, Victoria seemed to be going through the motions, acting a part. And he did not know what to do, save to play his own part. Dutiful minister, friend if she wanted one, confidant if she needed one. But she seemed to want nothing, need nothing.

After apprising her of his meeting with the former general, Baron Keane, Victoria mentioned offhandedly that she'd had another letter from the Captain.

"What does he say?" Melbourne asked, eager to learn whether the early increase in funding had resulted in fresh munitions and armaments. It would be too soon for additional troops to have been dispatched, but if any of his early efforts had borne fruit it would be telling.

Victoria shrugged. "I haven't opened his letter." She handed him the envelope.

Melbourne looked to her for permission and slid his nail under the flap, loosening the seal. He scanned the lines quickly, his mouth quirking up in a smile at the casual endearments and loose talk so unlike any one more accustomed to Court would direct to a Queen Regnant.

Then his face sobered. _"Despite having broken this old boy's heart into a thousand pieces, I will wish you and Lord Melbourne happy. Tell him I reserve the right to kiss the bride and will claim it upon my return."_

He remembered flippantly suggesting that if she were to continue her correspondence she should at least announce her impending marriage. Now the reminder was only cause for embarrassment, for both of them, and Melbourne decided to avoid mention of the unfortunate sentiment.

"What does he say? Is he well?"

Melbourne smiled at her. "Indeed, he seems well. They've been informed that a new platoon will be joining them in a few weeks' time, and the fortifications will be strengthened before winter comes to the pass."

That seemed to satisfy her. "Good. I hope no one else dies in that horrible place, in my name." Melbourne was courtier enough to know when he was being dismissed and took his leave soon after.

**

39 South Street, the Prime Minister's lodging, was an elegant row house within sight of the Park. When business took him to Buckingham Palace, that was the route he took, preferring the green to the bustle of Audley Street. Office as well as home, Melbourne regretted that he would be forced to run the gauntlet of private secretaries who lately made their careful deference plain. He far preferred a more congenial atmosphere and understood that their exaggerated diligence when he arrived was more acknowledgement of his mood than he would have wished.

There was little peace or privacy to be had in a working government office and when Melbourne saw an unfamiliar, well-sprung hansom cab in front of his door he was tempted to go around back and slip in the tradesman's entrance. Instead, resolutely, he dismounted and tossed his reins to one of his own attendants before climbing the stairs to see who might have come to call.

His own butler was waiting to greet him with more than usual promptness.

"A lady come to see you, sir. Mr. Cowper has her in the drawing room."

"Not the offices?" Melbourne raised a brow quizzically, not pleased that business would intrude on his living space.

"No, sir. It seemed best to place her in the drawing room." More annoyed than intrigued, Melbourne took a moment to compose himself. Only one female came to mind, who might cause unease enough in his butler for that good man to want her out of sight of his more customary visitors.

Her name was on his lips when he strode forward into the drawing room. As soon as he stepped inside he closed the door firmly behind him so that they would not be interrupted if she were to cause a scene. It would not be the first time Caroline Norton had deliberately inflicted such public humiliation on him in her ongoing efforts to harangue him back into her bed.

A slender, willowy figure, heavily veiled, stood on the far side of the room. Melbourne hesitated – it was impossible to be certain, yet he was sure this was not Mrs. Norton. One needed no outward confirmation to recognize, or not, a woman whom one had known intimately for several years. This was a lady, certainly, and of enough rank and standing to be expensively, tastefully attired. Yet she was unattended, unescorted.

"You wished to see me, ma'am? I am Melbourne." While courteous enough, Melbourne was careful to give no false indication he was interested in a tryst, or a secret meeting or…whatever this might be, it was irregular enough to put him on his guard.

"Are we certain to not be interrupted? Could you please lock the door to be sure?" Her voice was muffled by the heavy gauze draperies but not enough so Melbourne could fail to detect an accent.

"We will not be interrupted, ma'am. Or…shall I say, Your Grace?"

Melbourne had encountered her near-daily for three years, without having taken special notice. The Duchess of Kent, when she was not staring him down from a distance, treated him with icy superciliousness which he returned with punctilious courtesy. They had had their differences – the matter of her forging Victoria's name to a request that she be appointed Regent, her advocacy of Conroy's various requests for money and titles, each more absurd than the last – but there was never any open animosity. Mostly, they circled each other warily, Melbourne knowing she viewed him as an enemy, much as she resented Baroness Lehzen, blaming them for her estrangement from her daughter.

When she removed the wide-brimmed hat and heavy veil and shrugged back her voluminous cloak Melbourne saw for the first time that she was still a remarkably pretty woman. For the first time in his memory, he sat within three feet of the woman and took advantage of the opportunity to study her. Once, Victoire had been considered a great beauty and even after she wed the Duke of Kent as a widowed mother of two nearly-grown children she had been regarded as handsome, even voluptuous. Melbourne saw much of Victoria in her large blue eyes and fine porcelain skin. Her lips were thin and pale, her color benefiting from the artificial assistance of powder and rouge, but for all that she was still an attractive woman, or would have been if there was any animation or warmth in her expression. Instead, she looked only wary.

When he offered to call for refreshment the Duchess instantly demurred, making it plain she feared any intrusion, or – perhaps - any witness to her presence in the Prime Minister's private apartment. While he waited for her to speak, to explain the reason for her visit, she nervously twisted a handkerchief in her hands, thin fingers trembling as they worked the fabric into knots and then began shredding the hem. The sight of those frail fingers moved him, and he noticed for the first time how frail her shoulders were, how vulnerable her whole posture.

She had no easy time of it, and he knew he had played some part in that. Victoria's hostility toward her mother had much in it of the rebellious adolescent, suddenly freed of parental oversight and handed unimaginable power. Melbourne remembered his mother and sister, dearly loved and much attached to one another, yet hissing, spitting rivals too, when Emily had her coming out and first discovered her own femininity. How much worse would it have been, if his spitfire sister had been thrust into a position of absolute authority? He was aware of momentary regret, in not doing more to temper Victoria's desire to punish her mother for years worth of perceived slights. He knew better than anyone that Victoria was a warm-hearted, generous creature, easily moved to compassion, but she was also capable of as much petty cruelty as any very young woman.

The Duchess had spent twenty years in the unenviable position of widow who could never remarry, mother of the heir apparent and as such condemned to a solitary state. She had found her companion and he had been a venal, controlling opportunist, but without him Victoire had no one, not even her daughter.

He saw that now, seated on the divan in his drawing room, clutching a tattered scrap of cloth, the Duchess was silently crying, her tears leaving tracks in her carefully made-up face before dropping unhindered.

"Your Grace…." Awkwardly, he reached out a hand as though to comfort her. She lifted her chin and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. He withdrew his own, reminded of who she was. This was no wounded bird seeking his protection. This was the mother of the Queen.

”Do you want to tell me why you are here? How can I help you?"

“Lord Melbourne, I am here because I love my daughter. No matter what you think of me or the mistakes I have made, or even whether or not she loves me, I love Drina. And I think you do too."

The Duchess of Kent once more displayed the dignity of her rank. Her blue eyes, less vibrant than her daughters, with fine lines radiating from the corners outward – more from the perpetual sneer she affected than an indication of geniality – were still wary, but they harbored a certain level measuring quality as well. She might, Melbourne thought, be assessing his character. Genuinely curious, he only inclined his head, encouraging her to continue.

"Indeed, ma'am, the country loves their Queen," Melbourne straightened and reverted to the smooth, silky tone of a courtier.

She compressed her lips tightly in a grimace of impatience, nearly contempt.

"I have come here _incognito_ and in doing so risk my own place at my daughter's court. Please, do not dissemble. Do you love my daughter? Do you love her as she loves you?"


	17. Chapter 17

_Princess Victoire of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld (17 August 1786 – 16 March 1861)_

 

Victoria took a step back and held the handle of the heavy oak door, so it slipped silently closed. Then she spun about and walked rapidly past a gaping footman. Her heart was pounding a rapid staccato beat in her ears and she felt the surge of red rage which once presaged a fierce screaming tantrum. _Queens did not have tantrums. They had righteous anger_. Nonetheless she made a concerted effort to subdue the rising emotions threatening to overtake her.

Victoria burned with humiliation at the stupid prattling gossip she'd overheard. Her maids-of-honor, young women her own age, daughters of the nobility who served a purely decorative function at Court, vain, full of themselves, sure of their own prettiness and contemptuous of their sovereign. The notion that she must endure their presence only added to her fury, but even such minor sinecures were not within her power to upset without cause. _Lord M would know how I could replace them without causing a fuss_. But she knew she would not approach him with such a request, because their relationship was no longer as easy as it had been…and because he _liked_ them, damn him too, _making them laugh, joining in their games, running footraces down the corridors, playing shuttlecocks while they flocked around him like peahens around a rooster._

That, Victoria realized, had been Lehzen's muttered observation once and that it came so readily to mind caught her by surprise. _Are they right? Am I turning into Lehzen, unsmiling, serious…old before my time? Well then, those nasty girls were right. Albert is the best choice as husband after all. I'll never have to worry he will spare a glance at another woman – he told me he does not_ like _females and I know he doesn't appreciate frivolity._

She imagined the life they would live, two glum figures suppressing all gaiety at Court, dual brooding figures casting a shadow over what might have been a lively household. Albert did not dance; well, she no longer had any interest in dancing. Albert was _sérieux_ and she would be too. Victoria knew that Lord M had spoiled her for persons who did not have gentle smiling eyes and the hint of a smile always dancing about their lips. Captain Cameron had that quality in abundance, despite their dissimilarity in every other regard, Cousin Ernst also. Albert did not. Very well, she no longer wanted to laugh and certainly wanted no one who might awaken even a trace of the earlier feeling she had once harbored for Lord M. So yes, they would suit.

Thoughts of those other aspects of marriage, when she imagined life with Albert, made her recoil. She would marry to give the country an heir, and an heir there would be. In eight months, she would be delivered of an _early_ child, and if that child were healthy then boy or girl, she would be done with the business. Instinct told her Albert would not protest. He never gave any indication he was drawn to her in that way, and there was no hint of gossip about him as there was about his brother and father. Even Ernst had teased him about his lack of experience with or interest in women, proclaiming this as a virtue which would render him an admirable husband. That, at least, Victoria could heartily appreciate since she could not entertain for an instant the notion of engaging in those intimacies with her cousin that had made the stolen hours with Lord M an idyllic memory.

Albert had expressed an interest in improving the lives of her subjects and Victoria thought that with that as a commonality they could forge something like an agreeable arrangement. So long as he did not interfere with the child she carried, the one precious reminder of a time she was happy, they might find a way to make the best of things.

Victoria knew she'd have to leave this small seldom-used apartment in which she'd taken refuge but for the moment it felt good to hide in a place where no one would find her, where she might escape the constant attendance that made daily life so suffocating. She thought of her mother's sudden attentions, doubly annoying because they roused feelings of guilt and even shame to see her mother fluttering about like a skittish poodle. Even Lehzen, so long at odds with the Duchess, had gently chastised her Queen for her lack of filial piety.

Victoria was puzzled by her mother's protestations of affectionate concern and unsettled by her insistent probing. Albert, so long a favorite of his aunt's, loomed large in the Duchess's conversation and not always in the way Victoria had come to expect.

"I thought you were fond of Albert, Mama," she'd challenged her once.

"I am fond of Albert, Drina. I think if he could escape Schloss Rosenau and his father and settle himself here with an adequate income he could be happy."

"Well then…he will be given a more than adequate income as Prince Consort and be far from Germany, so his father can not plague him."

"He does not need to be Prince Consort. You are the Queen. You can invite him to live in England and give him a title and income, one of your duchies perhaps, without marrying him."

"Enough, Mama," Victoria snapped, and now her voice had that dangerously angry edge the Duchess feared. She could see her mother wanted to say more and was relieved when she departed in silence.

**

It was ironic but perhaps understandable that in Lord Melbourne's presence, the Dowager Duchess was less inhibited than she was with her volatile daughter. His manner had always been perfectly unobjectionable towards her, Victoire acknowledged, and she had observed him often enough to know that he was Victoria's opposite in every conceivable way. That was good, she thought. They balanced each other, the impetuosity of youth calmed by the steadiness of experience, Victoria's hot temper and headstrong nature soothed and calmed by this man's air of unruffled calm. Victoire knew the source of her earlier disapproval – the age difference was indeed shocking – but she also knew that some very young women needed an older, wiser husband to gently guide their path to maturity.

Neither was she immune to his charm, his gentle playful manner and the heady gift of his undivided attention. He was a rake, of course, with a disreputable reputation, but the very fact that he had so many women willing to throw aside every other consideration to win his favor attested to the sincerity of his affection for her daughter. No man would entertain for a moment the notion of seducing the young virgin Queen of England for mere carnal pleasure, and certainly no man who had his choice of beautiful, accomplished women as this one did. As for marriage, that came with a whole host of disadvantages and no real advantage. If any man knew the limitations of a constitutional monarchy, it was the Prime Minister. No man who had reached the very pinnacle of his career, who held the reins of power over a great nation, would be tempted for an instant by the political impotence of a consort. No, Victoire thought, this man loved Victoria deeply, more deeply than her foolish feckless daughter deserved or could yet appreciate.

She wanted her daughter to be happy, but she'd also made the necessary calculation that her own standing would never improve if Victoria held on to old grudges. There was little she could do to change that, except, perhaps, to help her daughter get what she wanted most in the world.

Sitting beside him, Victoire permitted herself a moment of wistfulness. _What would it be like to be loved by_ such _a man?_ She dismissed that thought out of hand, as serving no practical purpose except to stir up feelings which had been ruthlessly suppressed when she lost the only man saw a woman when he looked at her.

"I have made you uncomfortable, Lord Melbourne," she said, twisting her thin lips into a smile. He looked down and away, but she thought she saw the merest hint of a smile soften his features momentarily. "And I would beg your pardon, but I think we do not have time _jemanden um die Ecke bringen_."

"Ma'am, my discomfort is not the point but since you mention it, I am not comfortable discussing the Queen with you, or with anyone. Certainly, I cannot respond to what you –"

" _Himmelherrgott_! Neither of you will talk about what anyone with eyes can see! So, then I will ask you, did you seduce my daughter for sport? Was that all it was?"

"No!" Lord Melbourne nearly shouted, his outrage plain, and in response the Duchess smiled at her gloved hands. "No," he repeated more quietly. "You do a grave injustice to Her Majesty in suggesting such a thing."

"And you too? I think you are not a fool, even if you are a rake."

"Thank you for that, I suppose," he responded dubiously and Victoire caught a glimpse of his charm in the smile which lit up his face. _What beautiful eyes!_ and the thought made her sigh a little.

"She intends to ask her cousin to marry her. Soon. Why are _you_ not marrying her?"

"Because she does not want to marry me, ma'am. There's nothing more to be said."

"I revise my opinion in that case. You _are_ a fool. She is a young girl and does not know what she wants. It is up to you to tell her. _Make her listen_."

"Your Grace, she is the Queen. One does not _make_ the Queen do anything she does not wish to do."

"She chose to lay with a man not her husband and risk scandal that would bring down the Crown and turn this country into a republic, but she does not wish to marry that man? Does that seem likely to you?"

"If what you – what you accuse me of were true, she would still have the right to change her mind. As you said, she is very young and perhaps did not know what she wanted. Now she does."

" _Ppfft_!" The Duchess expelled a very ungenteel sound. "Lord Melbourne, my daughter has always known exactly what she wants. Never, not once, even as a little girl, has Drina been indecisive or unsure of herself when it comes to pursuing exactly what she wants."

"Then there is your answer, ma'am. She does not want me."

Silence filled the space between them. The Duchess, no longer interested in avoiding his gaze, stared frankly at the man beside her. _So handsome, so desirable…and such a blind fool!_

"Do you want her? Do you love her enough to make her your wife? Or have you already grown weary of her moods, her strong will, her –"

"Yes, ma'am," Melbourne said, his voice suddenly harsh, cracking with a raspy note. "Yes, I want her, yes I love her enough to make her my wife. Is that what you want me to say? There you have it. I am, as my critics have said, an old fool besotted with a girl young enough to be my daughter. _You_ , ma'am, are nearly young enough to be my daughter."

"Not quite, Lord Melbourne, although it is quite chivalrous of you to say so." She heard the laughing note in her own voice and steadied herself lest he think she was being flirtatious. That would not do, not in this context although she thought that perhaps it was time she looked about her for someone who _might_ see her as more than a dowager.

"If, as you say, everyone with eyes could see it, then I have made a public spectacle of myself once more and will be pitied accordingly when she marries. So be it. I wish only her happiness."

"If you want her to be happy, Lord Melbourne, then go to her and give her a chance to be happy."

"That's impossible, ma'am. She is the Queen, and she is also very precious to me. I would not for anything put her in a position which causes her distress."

"Distress? Lord Melbourne, now you are being ridiculous. She is a woman. I am a woman. I can assure you, there is not a woman alive who would be distressed by a man she has already shown _tendresse_ proclaiming his love. Go to her, tell her exactly how you feel and how much you want her. Take her in your arms. Make her hear you, make her believe you. Then and only then will you, and she, know if she reciprocates your feelings. And if she does not…you will only add to her confidence as a woman, that she has made a conquest of such a handsome, charming man. Tell me, what do you have to lose?"

"Only my pride, ma'am, what's left to me. And the hope of maintaining a friendship with her after…after her marriage." Victoire saw pain in those fine, sad eyes and she almost felt sympathy. But this was no time for sympathy. This was the time for action.

" _Himmelherrgott!_ " She repeated. "Do you think, if she goes ahead with her plans to marry my nephew, they will let you remain _friends_ after? Stockmar and my brother will do everything in their power to banish you, to sever any connection that remains. My nephew will do as they say. The Baron is a puppet master. He controls Leopold, and he controls Albert. Any hope you have of maintaining a friendship with Victoria will be –" she snapped her fingers dramatically in his face.

"Why do you care, ma'am? I was not under the impression that you thought me a good influence on the Queen, certainly not that you ever entertained the possibility she might marry me." Melbourne leaned back and stretched out his legs, his posture deceptively casual. Victoire thought that with this man, the more nonchalant and relaxed he appeared, the more tightly coiled were his emotions.

"That is fair enough, Lord Melbourne. I did not think you were a good influence on my daughter. I thought you encouraged her to distance herself from me, and certainly enough people were eager to tell me the things you said, that I was a _foolish_ woman and not to be trusted. Perhaps for good reason, perhaps because you hoped to ingratiate yourself with your new sovereign. I do not know and now, it does not matter. I would like us to learn to be friends, Lord Melbourne." She had laid a hand over his as she spoke, and abruptly an expression of near-horror crossed his face. Victoire withdrew her hand, blushing deeply, and then laughed.

"If you marry my daughter, perhaps you can encourage her to treat me with more kindness, that is all I meant." She paused, debating fiercely with herself. _Tell him I think she is with child?_ That, however, would be the ultimate betrayal, and no matter how it turned out she knew Victoria would never forgive her. When he went to her, it must be because of his feelings for her alone. If he knew about the child, sooner or later he would confess it to Victoria – men could not keep secrets – and then Victoria would always be haunted by doubt. _No_ , she decided _, that is a secret I must keep._

"So…you will consider what I have said? And consider it quickly. Once my nephew arrives there will be speculation. If Drina is forced into a corner she will not back down, she will go ahead with her intention to marry him. My daughter never admits she might be wrong."


	18. Chapter 18

Melbourne worked long days, assembling in some cogent fashion the documentation he had procured and Anson to making copies in his laborious copperplate hand, meeting with a succession of peers, each of whom left in worse temper than the First Lord himself, or so Tom Young made the mistake of once observing audibly. To the quiet satisfaction of both Will Cowper and George Anson the crude, irrepressible dockside ruffian so inexplicably attached to the Prime Minister's service received a sharp rebuke that set even that fellow back on his heels.

Will might not have noticed more than his uncle's suddenly sharp temper and intolerance of the least attempt at familiarity, if his mother had not pressed him nightly for information. No young man would remark on his elder's appearance or demeanor, far less his emotional state, save for a concerned sister's relentless efforts at discovery. Then, _yes_ , Will conceded, _Uncle William appears different, no longer a jolly fellow to be around._ _That new coat, by Schultz if I'm not mistaken, fit him like a glove only weeks before now hung looser than a follower of Brummel would ever tolerate._ And _of course, he visits the Palace_ , _but does not stay overlong_. Parliament was due to open and when they discussed it sotto voce Will and George Anson, the Prime Minister's political protegee as well as chief-of-staff, agreed that if this term lasted forty-eight hours after its open the only cause would be infighting as to the terms of dissolution. That, they agreed, was more than enough reason for the tension in the air at 39 South Street.

What Will did not discuss with Anson or their third, Tom Young, was the recent family assumption that their uncle was soon to make a shocking announcement. Uncle Frederick had journeyed from Vienna and planned to stay at least another month, and although Will and his siblings had not been taken into the confidence of their seniors it was no difficult feat to glean enough by listening at doors and bribing servants to be in possession of the facts.

Yet more recently yet word had spread that the Queen's cousin had been summoned to London and _that_ , everyone knew, could have only one explanation. As a result, the bookmakers were going mad with the furious pace at which bets were cast in the clubs and Will could have drank away every night instead of only most on the insider information he was presumed to possess.

When they discussed the matter out of earshot of their mother and stepfather, Will and his sisters disagreed on the likelihood of such an eventuality. His sisters, Fanny especially, had no doubt that the Queen was infatuated with their uncle, her Lord M. Will and his brothers, as little as they wanted to contemplate the matter at all, expressed doubt that a gentleman of their uncle's advanced years might have any interest in a woman for other than her housekeeping skills and some vague notion of staid companionship. Sit by the fire, perhaps, or read together from some improving work. The girls laughed their brothers to scorn, professing Uncle William to be the object of quite other desires.

_"Someday, little Will, if you are very very fortunate you might have a tenth of Uncle's appeal and likewise have women sighing for your eyes. And other parts,"_ Fanny had said pertly, using her new status as a soon-to-be-married woman to display her superior knowledge of men and women.

" _Will is only put out that it was not he who captured the Queen's fancy. All those wasted dances, all the times he attempted to take Uncle's place with the Queen's boxes_." To that remark a crude rejoinder was offered by Will's eldest brother that made the girls blush, even while they erupted in gales of laughter.

**

Melbourne was not pining away, in fact. He was sure that lay somewhere under the surface, ready to erupt when there was no more business to attend. But in the last days before Her Majesty opened Parliament, when his full attention was taken by putting together the Order which he would force his Secretary of War to dispatch and the accompanying proclamation Palmerston would have little choice but issue to Auckland, Melbourne was conscious only of the myriad details of what was sure to be his last month in office and, beyond those, fueling his relentless, nearly manic energy, a low-grade annoyance, almost anger.

He previously would not have considered the possibility that he could feel anything but the tenderest regard for the Queen, but up-and-down emotions and the inexplicable situation they were in _did_ make him angry. _Silly chit,_ he thought more than once. That _was love,_ whether she knew it or not, the way in which she surrendered herself to him, devoured him avidly even in the most literal sense, enthusiastically embraced everything he taught her, every new caress.

Proud girl, she had cast aside her natural modesty and reticence and unabashedly gave her body and demanded his in return, shyness only returning after her own lust and his was sated. Was she still so naïve, so emotionally immature, that she could doubt the evidence of her senses? That she believed the things they did together, the way he touched her and came alive in her hands, was some sort of casual encounter? The whole thing was so inexplicable as to infuriate him and because that was a side to his character Melbourne had long since suppressed, he tried not to think of it at all so long as there was work to be done on her behalf.

He had participated in the ancient ritual ceremony by which the reigning sovereign opened Parliament no few times, and rarely failed to be touched by the mystic quality. Watching _her_ perform her part touched harder hearts than his and Melbourne knew this one would be the last he participated in as her First Lord. Melbourne had not entirely given up all hope for – well, for a different outcome than the one which seemed likely at this point – but however it all went, he would never again process before her in his robes, executing his own solemn role, and he resolved to put all other thoughts out of mind so that every facet could be committed to memory.

The day began with the formalized searching of the cellars by the Yeomen of the Guard under the auspices of the Great Lord Chamberlain. Begun after the Gunpowder Plot was uncovered just in time to prevent catastrophe, it was mostly but not entirely ceremonial and in fact Melbourne had begun personally overseeing the dispatch of the searchers to remind them that they in fact were the first line of defense in protection of a young female monarch who had already been targeted by several assassins. The Yeomen were rewarded with a glass of port afterward, a small enough token that for the premier to thank them added to their satisfaction with their part in the day's great events.

The peers assembled in their robes, joined by senior representatives of the judiciary and members of the diplomatic corps. Melbourne at least ensured that Frederick had a front row bench, sitting beside their sister while her husband took his place with other members of the cabinet.

Victoria, across town, would begin her own proscribed role, receiving symbolic white staves and delegating The Lord Chamberlain, on behalf of the monarch, to keep the hostage MP (usually the Vice-Chamberlain) for the duration of the state opening, by tradition as a surety for the safe return of the monarch. That tradition stemmed from the time of Charles I, beheaded in 1649 during the Civil War between the monarchy and Parliament. A copy of Charles I's death warrant would be displayed in the robing room used by the monarch as a grim, albeit ceremonial, reminder of what could happen to a monarch who attempts to interfere with Parliament. As much as Melbourne eagerly anticipated the arrival of his Queen, he knew she would not arrive until the Imperial State Crown was carried to the Palace of Westminster in its own State Coach and carried, along with the Great Sword of State and the Cap of Maintenance, to be displayed in the Royal Gallery.

Melbourne had first deviated from past tradition on Victoria's first year on the throne, by meeting her carriage himself and personally escorting her to the Robing Room and then through the Royal Gallery to the House of Lords. This would be performed in future by her consort, rather than her minister, but for a young girl having a familiar face at hand to steady her had seemed a necessary adaptation and was one they had never since altered. _Perhaps…_ he thought, unable to go further.

In his own ermine robes, wearing his coronet and bearing in front of him the great jewel-encrusted Sword of State, these ceremonies were the only occasion at which he felt near to her equal, representative of the Government in its perpetual dance with the Crown, counterparts and partners in a great shared endeavor. _This, above all, I will miss for the rest of my life_. He could have hung onto power for another year or more, continuing to build and rebalance coalitions, if not for the bill he would present today and the speech he would give in less than an hour, blowing the whole thing up. _For what_? For his legacy, to rectify past omissions, to uphold some moral precept? To do the right thing? _No_ , he knew, the answer was _, for her._

The sky was overcast that morning, but Melbourne would always remember a brilliant, unnatural clarity. The great golden coach, the scarlet coats of the officers forming a ceremonial guard. The gleaming jewel-encrusted epaulets on the horses. _Her_. The beautiful heart-shaped face, wide eyes fringed in black, her smooth creamy complexion and the way in which he saw, just for a moment, that old achingly familiar look, her eyes turned up to his all alight and lips parted with delight in seeing him. As though she saw _more_ , more than he knew he was, more than he ever imagined he could be except for her.

A step was put down and the carriage door opened, and Melbourne stepped forward, extending his hand to help her down. She laid her small gloved fingers in his palm and when she reached the ground he remembered how small she was, despite the aura of formidable authority which surrounded her. _For others, never for me._ She had always shown him her vulnerability, shared her doubts and insecurities without hiding behind the smooth marble mask of serene detachment she showed the rest of the world. Melbourne's heart swelled until he thought it would burst and he decided then, in that moment, he would roll the dice. Not now, of course. Now, today, this hour, they would put on a grand display and he would do his part, play his role to perfection. But soon, he would roll the dice and then he would know, sentence or reprieve.

**

She stood before the assemblage, the Commons summoned by Black Rod to join the Peers to hear the Queen's Speech. Melbourne had advised her on the writing – it would be her part in the day's business, a simple sentence woven in amongst all the rehearsed prose – and she delivered it in her clear, melodic voice. He was surprised only once, by another phrase which they had not drafted together, following immediately after his own passage thanking the military who formed the vanguard of the Empire. She continued by expressing thankfulness to _Our most noble, most righteous and most devoted servant, the Viscount Melbourne, upon whom We depend for guidance and support in all matters great and small in the execution of Our duties._

There was no opportunity to do more than flick a single glance in her direction before the Peers came forward to pledge their fealty. Melbourne, as First Lord, knelt before his Queen and took the hand she extended. Unlike the others, who understood that protocol forbade actual contact with the smooth skin of Her Majesty's ungloved hand, wearing the great Seal ring, his lips touched her fingers and he inhaled sharply, wanting to absorb all he could of her during the brief contact. She neither pulled away nor recoiled, however slightly, and he thought he felt a minute pressure from her fingers, as though she was silently returning this invisible caress. _So,_ he thought as he rose _, there was that._

Melbourne took his place behind her once more and concentrated his attention on the long line of lords awaiting their turn to be acknowledged. She knew them all now, by name and – as she would soon demonstrate at the reception to follow – by the minutiae of their lives, achievements, home counties, estates, wives and children. No one in Melbourne's long memory devoted the focused diligence on preparation and study that Victoria did, memorizing those facts from her collection of small handwritten notecards. A schoolgirl's habit, he once thought with amusement, but an effective one nonetheless, and testament to her extraordinary work ethic.

As was their established custom Melbourne lingered near her during the reception, genially conversing with those who approached him but always with some part of his attention on Victoria. This, he knew, was the most stressful part for her, having to initiate conversation and find something to say to each person who deserved that momentary contact with their sovereign. Protocol demanded that the Queen introduce a topic for each encounter and she struggled mightily, knowing how ruthlessly she would be mocked later for insipidity. Yet how could anyone be bright, scintillating, original and amusing for ninety seconds at a time with a hundred different people?

He would listen for any momentary lapse, or even just when he judged she might appreciate assistance, and step to her side, murmuring some comment or other to whomever was standing before her. He had, Melbourne assured her often enough, the benefit of knowing everyone and being related to most of them in some way or another and could effortlessly interject some bit of wit or flattery or a bland anecdote which would allow them to shine. She would follow his conversational lead easily, with the same well-matched partnering they had on the dance floor and be able to contribute something in turn which restored her confidence. How he would miss all those moments, the many minor ways in which he had sought to ease her passage into full adulthood while under constant critical scrutiny in the most difficult of positions! _And the looks of gratitude, of adoration, she gave him in return._

Then, too soon, that final assembly was concluded and he handed her into her carriage once more. It was his turn to gently squeeze the small hand in his.

"You did splendidly, ma'am," Melbourne murmured, as he always did, and was rewarded with both a small smile and a sad, nearly forlorn expression in her beautiful blue eyes.

"Now you will give your speech?" she asked quietly. Melbourne nodded, still holding her hand.

"You will come to the Palace later, to tell me?"

"I will, ma'am, if I can. Or tomorrow, if it grows too late. You have a dinner tonight, for the newly made peers."

"I would like you to be there for that," Victoria said firmly. "We – there is no reason for – to not be. As you always are."

"By tonight I might be your Prime Minister in name only," Melbourne reminded her.

"You will still be my friend. You will always be my friend?" he heard the lift and knew it was a question.

"For as long as you wish me to be, ma'am. Things will change soon. I believe your cousin arrives tomorrow?"

She looked away and did not answer. Melbourne was aware that he had lost some of his customary care in addressing her and did not particularly regret it. She was his sovereign, and his friend, he hoped, and had been his lover, his not-so-secret love, and had lost patience, for the moment at least, for maintaining the charade of benign indifference.

**

Victoria had slept little the previous night, or the past week's worth of nights, and refused to resort to the solace laudanum would provide. When she returned to Buckingham House she curtly dismissed her ladies and went to her private apartment, giving word to the steward that she did not wish to be disturbed before it was time to dress for dinner. Except, of course, if the Prime Minister called. He should be shown to her private office, where she always received him.

A footman brought her favorite dog, the little Spaniel who scampered along beside her throughout the days and slept with her at night. The footman to whom the dog had been entrusted apologetically explained that the awful smell emanating from his fur originated in a gleeful romp-and-roll taken in newly fertilized planting beds during a game of fetch.

Victoria had her gown removed and replaced with a simple day dress. She had intended to nap but the pungent odor of liquid manure clinging to the little dog's long Spaniel coat decided her otherwise, and so she called for water and towels to be brought to her dressing room.

_"First, a bath, young man. Then you and Mama will rest before we have to entertain the country bumpkins we've invested in the peerage."_ They would mostly be well-connected younger sons and nephews of the nobility, she knew, along with a recently retired general and only a few newly elevated wealthy merchants, and might even be more enjoyable guests than the sharp-chinned Duchesses who looked down their pointy noses at a gauche little girl, and it was, after all, her last social function as _Gloriana_ , the virgin – well, the unmarried, unbetrothed – Queen. She would enjoy it if she could.

All her attention was focused on discouraging Dash from rolling about in the bedcovers to share a scent he clearly found most pleasurable, and only belatedly noticed how very long it was taking to bring hot water. When Miss Skerrett finally returned, directing chambermaids to pour their steaming cans of water into the shallow pan set out for that purpose, Victoria barely intercepted her dog in time to prevent a tragedy and so more time passed as cool water was brought to prevent scalding. Her patience at an end, Victoria told them all to leave. Then she rolled up her sleeves and tucked a sheet about her for an apron before depositing the furry creature in his bath and working up a lather with both hands.

The dog was accustomed to this process, and even appeared to find it pleasurable. He ducked his small face under the surface of the water several times, then lifted his head and shook vigorously so his long curly ears efficiently spread water and soap over as wide an area as possible. Victoria tried to be stern with him, but he looked so comical that she relented, laughing instead as he continued shaking his head while she poured water in a stream to rinse away the soap.

She heard her outer door, the one which led to her office and sitting room, open and debated reminding whomever entered that she had given orders to not be disturbed. Instead, looking at the pile of dripping towels and the wet long-haired dog, she called out instead.

"Bring more towels, please."

"I thought I was prepared for any eventuality, but obviously I've failed. Where do I procure towels?"

Victoria looked up, startled, all trace of laughter fading. "Lord M!"

He was smiling at least, she thought, and of course his posture was as always perfect, so graceful and elegant, hands clasped behind his back. Victoria wanted desperately for the awkward stiffness between them to completely pass away, so they could be as they were. It was all she could hope for now, and all she needed to endure whatever happened next.

"Is – did you give your speech? Do tell me how it went!"

"I will but perhaps you want to complete that creature's ablutions first," Lord M said drily but Victoria knew he was as fond of Dash and Islay as they were of him – well, nearly so, at any rate.

"Can you hand me a towel please? In there – " she inclined her head toward a cabinet. "If I release him first he'll roll around on the bed to dry himself."

He helped her with the extraction of Dash from his basin and rubbed the little dog's coat while Victoria held him in place. They worked together in companionable silence, each addressing their remarks only to the dog, and the painful constriction of Victoria's heart eased.

When they were done she untied the towel meant to protect her dress and looked down at the large water stains discoloring her skirts. "Well, no matter, I must dress for dinner later. If you don't mind my disarray…?"

Melbourne smirked, in a look she knew well. "Not at all, ma'am. You look charmingly unlike a Queen and I quite like it."

Flustered, Victoria blushed and looked down, embarrassed by the tingling sensation spreading from her belly outward, aware of the broad canopied bed just behind her. The bed where they had shared such bliss, the bed where he had put a child in her.

"Leave him," Melbourne said curtly, indicating he wished the dog to remain behind. His tone once again was surprising, not precisely rude but also not _careful_ , nor especially gentle.

Victoria coaxed Dash to sit-stay and then quickly closed the door, confining him to her bedchamber. She followed Lord M to her study, aware that it was not usual she walk behind anyone.

"The thing is done, ma'am. The bill passed, thanks to the Tories in large part. An immediate lump sum will be dispatched, along with the men Major-General Cotton had asked for, so that the Army can construct proper fortifications."

"And…you are safe? There was no – no mutiny?"

"I am here to offer my resignation, ma'am, and advise you to recommend general elections be called. I am willing to remain in office until that can be done. There is precedent for a First Lord holding all three of the Seals – when Wellington formed a caretaker government before my second term, he was forced to do likewise. It puts an unusual amount of power in one person's hands, but Wellington himself agreed that it should be done once again. I will be under a great deal of scrutiny of course, but it gives us the window we need to bring some sort of order and decide whether we should remove from Afghanistan before winter makes it impossible to withdraw."

"All the seals? Your ministry--?"

"My cabinet has resigned. Nearly to a man. Lansdowne remains, and Ellis, but the rest of them, even Palmerston, walked out. It's done."

Victoria felt the first stirrings of real unease. While she knew it was coming – sooner or later every government must change – it was still a difficult thing to contemplate. And Lord M – would he truly abandon her, or would he remain as her friend and adviser? Once, just a few short weeks ago, this might have been the occasion of cautious rejoicing. When she briefly allowed herself to believe he returned her love truly and completely and would marry her for the right reasons. _Dear Lord M!_ He'd given her so much – given her everything, truly – and had been willing to give even more, to marry a girl like herself only to assuage her own need and greed.

"And now? What happens next?" Victoria heard the trembling hesitation in her own voice and momentarily wished for composure, for dignity. But no, she would not, could not dissemble to Lord M. Let him see how affected she was at the prospect of losing his – his counsel, his guidance, his constant companionship. _Please, please, Dear God, not his friendship too!_

"And now…we will discuss what happens next. Victoria." His use of her Christian name, for the first time since those heady wonderful days and nights, surprised her, but pleasantly. _If he is not my minister, he is still my friend then, and friends use one another's names._

But he did not sound particularly friendly, she realized, puzzled, nor did he look so. Melbourne's beautiful eyes were hooded and looked darker, a trick of the light surely. His carriage was not stiff but rather gave the impression of taut control. He was staring at her so curiously Victoria felt mildly unsettled and wished suddenly she was dressed more properly, in a becoming gown that revealed shoulders he had once called lovely, in stays which pressed up her breasts to give her more fullness there. Instead she stood before him in bare feet and a simple cotton dress covered in dog fur, water-blotched and wrinkled, long sleeves and high neck covering her small bosom unaided by anything except a chemise. Not, she accepted, how she would prefer he see her, inelegant and exactly like the schoolgirl he already considered her.

Melbourne took a step back, his gaze still serious and watchful, and then another. He turned and for a moment she thought he would leave without another word. Instead he turned the key in the lock to her door, the door leading to the drawing room beyond.

"If you don't mind, I do not think we should be interrupted."

"Of course," Victoria agreed hesitantly. "We must discuss what steps to take to…." She heaved a great sigh and knew her own eyes were troubled. "…to form a new government, to replace you as First Lord."

Melbourne inclined his head and she thought his expression was odd, almost mocking.

"Not exactly," he answered, his tone low and almost hoarse. He remained standing across the room, by the door, only looking at her for so long that Victoria grew uncomfortable. Despite her disheveled appearance she drew herself up to her full height and pulled her shoulders back, assuming an expression of what she hoped was confident dignity.

Lord Melbourne began walking toward her slowly, so slowly that she thought he looked like a tiger she'd seen once at an exhibition, a powerful beast with the grace of a dancer.

"Now, ma'am, I think you owe me an explanation before we go any farther." Still that gravelly voice, that unfamiliar, almost harsh tone. Demanding, she thought, not careful. _Was he angry? Truly angry?_ The idea sent a strange thrill up her spine. She did not, could not, _fear_ him. The very idea was ludicrous, and she stood in a palace, surrounded by guards and servants and—yet, now, here, they were quite alone, and she was locked in a small room with a man who was suddenly unfamiliar.

"Explanation?" Victoria asked, and she was proud that her own voice sounded cool and controlled. _I am the Queen_ , _Lord M. Do not forget that, even for an instant. I come from a line of Kings stretching back a thousand years._ Of course, she did not say it aloud but still, she saw that he understood the message she wished to convey. Some recognition flickered in his eyes, and then…he laughed. Not entirely pleasantly, his laughter this time came in a short harsh burst.

"You _are_ the Queen, ma'am, every inch a Queen. And since I'm familiar with _every inch_ I think I am a fit judge."

Victoria felt the warmth rise to her cheeks unbidden, but she maintained her composure and returned his gaze levelly, waiting to see what he would say next. If he was angry, well, she knew she deserved it, pursuing him as she had, demanding not once but twice that he return her affection in kind.

"You are Queen of the greatest nation on earth, and you are _Gloriana._ You are also the woman I love, the woman I _made love to._ The woman I _fucked_."

Victoria gasped, knowing without being told the vile coarseness of the word, knew it was meant to express a world of contempt. Yet it was perversely titillating too, coming from his lips, directed at her as though she were indeed only a woman, a woman he _loved_. Her heart skipped a beat. _Had he said 'the woman I love'?_

"You have given me so much, Lord M. You have taught me so much. I will never forget. I had no right to demand more. You – you told me the first time, that I should not give my heart to you. I persisted and for that I deserve your anger."

"What rot are you talking?" Melbourne sounded genuinely puzzled.

"Lord M, I – I can never express my gratitude for all you've done for me. Even – especially for – " her voice trailed off. Victoria knew she lacked the language to adequately refer to all he was to her during those few short weeks.

"William," he said abruptly, stepping so close that she could feel his warmth through the fabric of his coat. "Call me William, Victoria. And tell me why you cried off. Make me understand how I could so completely mistake what I felt when I was in you. I am not inexperienced, and I knew – I _know_ – that you loved me. Why did everything change?"

Victoria could only stare, dumbfounded. She did not back away, although she knew she should. He was too close, so close that she would not be able to refrain from laying her hands on him.

She did not have to. He grabbed her wrist roughly and pressed her hand against him, against the hard swelling that was surging up toward her touch, demanding even in the midst of anger. Startled, Victoria reflexively pulled her hand away, trying to twist it out of his grip. Instead of releasing her he only squeezed the delicate bones of her wrist more tightly, so tightly that she yelped in sudden pain.

With a look of horror, he released her and stepped back. They stood that way, mere inches between them but enough so that they could each regain some measure of control. Victoria knew her own breath was coming in ragged gasps, as though she'd run a race, and she could see the movement of his chest under the fine fabric of his white shirt. She ached, actually ached, to touch him, to press herself against his chest, to press her hand again on that place he had forced it. She wanted him so badly she thought she might beg, and humiliate herself in doing so. Then it would all be over, for she knew herself well enough to understand that if she once debased herself so completely she would never tolerate the sight of him again.

"Lord Melbourne, you forget yourself," Victoria said, in a cold voice.

* * *

 

**[Heroes](https://youtu.be/kNk9QpAHFno) **

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

"Lord Melbourne, you forget yourself," Victoria said, in a cold voice that momentarily shook him. But no, this farce will end now, one way or the other, came the inexorable reminder.

Melbourne had told himself for days, weeks, that so long as he salvaged something from the debacle he would be content. And he would be, he thought, content to remain at her side. He would ask no more than to serve her as a valued adviser, a friend. If they could continue to share their talks, wonderful meandering conversations on every subject, if he could still win that wonderful laughter like silver bells, if he might still be the one to whom she turned for momentary reassurance, her touchstone, he would be more than content to remain in the background and watch her glory unfold for however much time he had left.

But the Duchess's words rang true. He could not deny it. _They_ would never permit him to remain in her life, they would tear at and eventually succeed in unraveling the thousand threads of friendship which bound them together. Her clockwork prince was the least of his worries. That sullen, joyless young man might be placed at her side and crowned but he would never rouse in her the hot hungry fire Melbourne had ignited, nor would she ever lean on a _boy_ her own age. But there were others, ambitious controlling others – Stockmar under the same roof, like a patient spider weaving webs of uncanny observation weaponized with keen understanding of human nature. Leopold pouring saccharine venom into letters, knowing just how to use Victoria's longing for affection to his own advantage. Future Prime Ministers who would not tolerate a predecessor whispering in the Queen's ear.

 _No_ , Melbourne knew, it must be all or nothing and he had to roll the dice.

"Have you forgotten _yourself_ , Victoria? Have you forgotten what we shared? Who you are? Who I am?" He heard his own voice, nearly a growl, and felt his hands clench into fists. It would be so easily to end this now, to pull her into his arms. She would succumb – never had he been with a woman so ready for love, so perfectly suited to the acts of love and so attuned to his own passion. He would not force her, of course, he would not need to, but he would also not encourage her own flesh to overcome her stubborn mind.

"Answer me," he demanded, knowing full well no one, not even the hated Conroy, had ever spoken to Victoria that way. Her eyes widened with shock and something like anger – something _like_ but not precisely anger, he thought.

"Lord Melbourne, Lord M – I – I understand you are angry with me. I release you from your promise to marry me. It was not – I know that – I am not –" Her eyes flooded with tears suddenly and that nearly proved his undoing. He could not bear to see her distress and wanted nothing more than to comfort her. If withdrawing from her presence gave her comfort, then so be it.

" _No!"_ He stepped forward, his body moving of its own volition. Melbourne's heart demanded he gentle her, speak soothingly, cradle her in his arms, but his long-suppressed temper resisted.

When the distance between them was closed and he stood closely enough that their clothing just touched – Victoria in that silly maid's dress, the soft folds of fabric clinging to her shape without benefit of all the accouterments of a lady's toilette, still damp from the dog's bath _–_ he relented, glancing down at her, smiling at the tips of bare toes peeking out from under her hem.

She reached out a hand tentatively, whether to ward him off or bring him nearer, and Melbourne felt it burn where it lay against his chest. Her lips were just parted, as though she were about to speak, and she unconsciously swayed so that for a brief heady moment he felt her hips nearly in contact with him. Damnably his ready response surged once more, so insistent, swollen so large he was sure she would see it through the heavy fabric of his trousers.

Melbourne reached for her, intending to cup her face in his hand, but she turned slightly so his whole hand encompassed her fragile throat. He felt her pulse beating against his fingers like the fluttering of a small bird.

"Say it. Tell me," he demanded, his own voice raspy and harsh. "Tell me you love me or tell me you don't."

Victoria inhaled with a great gasp and he felt a shiver run through her before she nearly collapsed into his arms, her own hands fumbling for purchase, seeking, finding. His arms encircled her of their own accord, the curves of her small form fitting perfectly into the welcoming hollows of his as though they were two halves of a whole. _So easy. She's home, back where she belongs. My home is in her and hers, in me._ She clung to him like a limpet and he walked her backwards, pressing his mouth against hers before it moved to her ear, her neck, her shoulder.

Melbourne was not harsh, but neither was he gentle or careful. His body raged, demanding he seal their bargain and make her his in a way words could not. Victoria gave herself willingly, hungrily, gripping him with both her small hands. He grappled with the layers of skirt keeping him from her, found her center, felt her arch her hips and rock against his hand. He forced himself to slow and look into her face, seeing more than consent in her eyes, almost a plea. _So close,_ he thought, _so near and I will be in her and she will be mine, all mine._

"No," Melbourne growled. He released her, shaking with the effort, and stepped back. "Tell me."

"I…I want you. I've always wanted you. I will never want anyone but you." Her words tumbled out in a breathy whisper, and they were music to his ears, but they were not enough.

Her fingers plied him through his clothing and he was sure she could even feel the anticipatory droplets of fluid which must surely be staining the fabric. He felt himself surge against her hand – the damn thing had a mind of its own. He jerked her arm away, so her fingers flailed impotently in the empty space, and his own body, suddenly bereft, protested the withdrawal of her touch almost painfully.

"That's not enough," Melbourne hissed. He could not, would not accept equivocation.

He could have her, he knew, right here on her desk, on the floor, against the wall. He could take her on the altar at her marriage to that silly German prince, and she would come willingly, avidly. But it was not enough. He wanted it all, wanted late nights mocking the foibles of the courtiers, wanted companionable silence in the privacy of their chamber, wanted to be the safe place she fled to from the demands of the day, wanted his arms to be her refuge, wanted the right to close the door and shut out the world and have his darling girl all to himself. Wanted even the blessing of a child, wanted to plant the seed of an infant in her so that their love might outlive them both.

"Tell me you will marry me. Or tell me you won't. But end this torment now, for both of our sakes."

"You – you can't really want to marry me. That's your kindness talking, your sense of duty," Victoria mumbled, eyes beseeching. "You would hate being married to me and soon, you would hate me. I'm not beautiful, or accomplished, or witty or – any of those things others are, the kind of women you--"

" _Kindness?_ I have never been accused of that particular virtue," Melbourne scoffed. "And my sense of duty only goes so far and no further. I remind you I also served your uncle and never once responded to his nearness the way I respond to yours. As for _those others_ – Victoria, you can never be the first woman I've loved, but you will be the last. And because I know myself far better now than I ever did before, I can love you better and more completely than I've ever loved before. But I must know – do you know your own mind, your own heart? Do you love me as a man, or as a…a father figure, a teacher, a mentor?"

Victoria looked shocked. "A father figure? I have had those in abundance. My uncles, Stockmar, even the Duke of Wellington, whom I greatly admire. I have had tutors throughout my life. And I remind you, I _had_ a father. You are – my feelings for you are a thing apart. I – I never ever saw you as a father. When I first met you, I thought only of Camelot, of those romantic tales of knights and…oh such romantic foolishness from the books Lehzen never found, books smuggled to me by my sister and even Conroy's daughters. And then when I grew to know you I discovered that such heroes do not only exist in novels. I _like_ no one better than you, and I _love_ no one better than you and I surely will never experience such intimacies with anyone else. The very thought turns my stomach."

"So how could you plan to marry your cousin? I think you must have thought of such things if you marry to provide an heir."

"I will have an heir," Victoria blurted, and her hand went involuntarily to her flat stomach.

Melbourne gasped audibly. He knew his thoughts, his feelings, must be writ plain on his face.

"Do you mean-?" _Of course, that's what she meant. What else could she possibly mean?_

"I mean I think – I'm almost certain – that I am with child. And I would not have you marry me only for that, if you don't truly love me the way I love you."

"How can you think such foolishness? I remind you, ma'am, that the entire court and most of the country has called you Mrs. Melbourne for years. My feelings for you are no secret to anyone, except, it seems, to you."

"But you…you complain of the tedium of Court, of the insipidness of my drawing rooms, the ridiculous protocol and pomp…you talk about your relief to escape when you – when you visit _that woman. You mock me!"_

Melbourne, suddenly understanding, sat back against the edge of her desk. He threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration.

"And may I ask who your informant is? Need I ask? Stockmar frequents Mrs. Norton's drawing rooms as often as I do, and more. He visits her alone quite often, as an emissary of your uncle, I believe. Your uncle, whose liaisons with that lady were common knowledge even while she entertained me." He sighed and shook his head.

"I have never, ever mocked you, or permitted anyone else to do so in my hearing. Yes, I complain of the tedium of Court. _You do too_. And of the near-intolerable boredom of those endless evenings listening to the prattle of your maids, those stupid flighty girls, while your mother plays her endless games of whist with whichever unlucky partners she can enlist. _You do too._ My darling, it's all tolerable because I can be near you and sometimes, when your own boredom becomes apparent, I can make you laugh or enliven the proceedings. And when I can't I –"

"You fall asleep, and snore," Victoria supplied, laughing a little through her tears. "But you talk about me, and about the things which go on here, in a way which gives fodder to those who spitefully make fun of me for _trapping_ you and keeping you tied to my side."

Melbourne lowered his head. He knew that his own gregariousness sometimes carried him away, and Caroline Norton was such a damned appreciative audience. Never had he for one moment made Victoria the target of his wit, and in fact had drawn a clear line with Caroline long since, tolerating not the merest mention of the Queen herself. But…

"I should not have done that, and I will not do it again. In case you wonder, Caroline's spitefulness and her resentment of you stems from jealousy. She is aware of my feelings for you and it doesn't set well with her, that you have without effort won what she never had."

Victoria moved closer, stepping between his legs where he sat, and he rested his hands on her hips. Her sweet face, exquisitely pretty without being conventionally beautiful, was the dearest, most precious sight he'd ever seen. So open and sincere, for better or worse, and so unguarded with him alone.

"If we're being honest, I confess it did my own pride no good to hear from our friend Stockmar what a selfless substitute _father_ I am to you, or how you wrote to your uncle praising my paternal affection."

"What could I say, Lord M? He must know how important – how _irreplaceable_ – you are in my life and I could find no other words to convey the magnitude of my attachment."

"I think when you write him to advise him of our marriage, you might find a more suitable description?"

When she looked up at him, Melbourne drank in the raw adoration in her gaze, the hopeful happiness shining from her blue eyes.

"Will we really be married? Because you love me as a wife? Because you _want_ to marry me? Or because you want to marry the Queen? Because I love only you. I adore you and want to be your wife, if you truly want me."

Melbourne gently pulled her even closer and slid his hands to the small of her back. "I think no sane person _wants_ to marry the Queen of England, ma'am. But I will endure it, so I can marry _you."_

Melbourne pressed butterfly-light kisses on her face. Then he turned her chin up so he could see her expression clearly.

"And you, ma'am? If you do not see me as a father figure now, what about in five years? Ten? If I am extremely fortunate I will go quickly. If not…you will be a young, vital woman with an old, infirm husband." Saying the words almost choked him, but he knew they must be confronted now, before either of them were caught up in the sheer physicality of their attraction.

"I can die in childbirth, like my cousin Charlotte. Or grow fat like she did while she was with child. That is the risk _you_ take." Only the raw emotion in Victoria's sweet face kept Melbourne from releasing the laugher he felt, at her absurd counterargument. _And yet, was it any more outlandish than his own need for reassurance_?

"If you die in childbirth, or, worse, grow fat and ungainly, I will love you until my last breath," he whispered, kissing the tempting rosebud mouth which presented itself, pleased that only the slightest chuckle escaped before he did so.

"Are you truly carrying my child? You are certain?" he murmured against her hair. It seemed too fragile a wish to even put into words. _A child. My child. To be a father again..._

"I am nearly three weeks late. I think – and Mama guessed, and she said Baron Stockmar has been bribing my maid to put aside my…my linen…he even knows when we – when you spent nights in my bed."

Melbourne saw the rosy flush suffusing her cheeks and was touched. So young, so innocent of the treachery all around her. _His_ child, _their_ child…his heart overflowed with gratitude and he laid his hand on her abdomen where just maybe, an infinitesimal new life was anchored.

"And yet he is insistent you marry your cousin. Clearly, he does not view your lack of maidenhead an impediment. No, probably not. Probably he views that as his trump card. And your cousin would not protest?"

"No," Victoria responded instantly. "I don't think Albert is particularly interested in that aspect of marriage. He needs to marry, of course, and marry well. His father and brother are very expensive."

"Needs to marry well? Or needs the income and position marriage would provide?" Melbourne asked thoughtfully, thinking aloud. "If his – his feelings were not engaged, there is no reason for him to set himself up as your – as our – enemy. I have an idea to secure his support for our marriage. And without the bridegroom, there's little your uncle can do to raise an outcry."

He smoothed her hair and made an effort to tidy her rumpled gown. "And now, ma'am, I think we best unlock that door before the guards break it down."

"Lord M, you are quite disheveled yourself," she giggled, and he thought how he adored the sound. His black clothing was indeed covered with the same black and white hairs which clung to her own gown. "And poor Dash has been locked in my chamber. My bed will be soaked through from him rolling about to dry himself."

"A good thing, ma'am. Wise Dash. We will be less tempted to use it prematurely, and _that_ particular mess in your linen won't be blamed on me."

Melbourne kept hold of her hand as he shuffled together those few documents which had not yet been locked away.

"I think you would do better with two hands," she smiled, gazing up at him wide-eyed.

"But then I would have to let go of you." Melbourne managed to turn the key in the box lock with one hand. "I will leave you now and return tomorrow. We have much to discuss. Can you promise me you won't change your mind once more when you are out of my sight?"

"I promise. If you won't."

"Victoria…" Melbourne looked down at her, his own eyes grown serious. "You must promise to talk to me if you have concerns, or doubts. Now or in future. We won't always agree, you know. And there will always be people who seek to make trouble between us, for devious reasons or only for amusement and to assuage their own discontent. I will get on your nerves, hard as that is to believe," he smirked. "And you might even annoy me occasionally. If you trust that our love is true, the rest can work itself out. Marriage is not easy."

"I am afraid I won't know how to be married," Victoria said doubtfully. "I have no good example, and very little idea how to…accommodate, to yield to someone else's wishes. I can be very selfish, I've been told. And jealous of attention paid to others. Not just…other ladies, in your case, but anyone. With Mama, Lehzen, dear Feodora, I have always found it unpleasant to see the attentions of those I love turned elsewhere."

"You, ma'am? Never!" Melbourne's tone was teasing and caressing and Victoria grinned sheepishly. "I have no idea how to be married either. We will learn together."

"Lord M…so handsome, such a _beautiful_ man. Will you really be mine to love? All mine?" Melbourne noted the look of wonder and pride on her face and thrilled to it, that such a splendid creature could cherish _him_ so completely.

"All yours, Mrs. Melbourne. All yours."

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of this as a bonus rather than a cheat:) Of course there will be more 'good stuff' coming - William has not yet confronted Stockmar, nor have he and Victoria sealed their betrothal with more than a kiss - but I couldn't resist a transitional chapter replicating those scenes from old films, with newspaper headlines flashing past telling the story with different "voices." More coming soon...

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

The 2nd Viscount Melbourne ran lightly up the Grand Staircase, that magnificent Nash-designed curving work of art constructed in cast bronze that greeted all visitors to Buckingham Palace. Above his head were displayed Victoria's larger-than-life ancestors in magnificent gilt frames, a welcome committee he had only just begun to notice.

Melbourne had moved in the highest echelons of British society his entire life and had been reared with a comfortable sense of his own place in that world, part of a joyous, self-satisfied milieu free to dabble in the principles of reform and liberalism from the safety of their privileged positions.

Like most of his rank and station, Melbourne had thoughtlessly embraced the ideals of egalitarian reform as a young man and even when the risks of too-sudden change began to conspicuously outweigh the benefits and his own cautious, reflective nature counseled patience, he had retained the Whig identity which was as much birthright as political system.

They were all too closely related to abandon generations of tradition for the sake of doctrine, yet Party membership was more fluid than anyone liked to suppose. Palmerston had begun his political career a Tory and Disraeli a Whig before switching allegiances somewhere down the line. But those were both headstrong, passionate fellows determined to push their own beliefs, where Melbourne had come late to the business of fighting for a cause. The whole notion of getting worked up enough about some principle to be at loggerheads with one's fellows seemed vaguely unseemly and whether he was praised or excoriated it only embarrassed him.

Only the great personal regard in which most of his peers held William Lamb prevented him from being cut openly the first time he strolled into the hallowed precincts of Brooks after the great Appropriations debacle. If someone or other sneered as he passed by, Melbourne paid no notice, only showing that charming smile, the genuine warmth of which could melt the hardest of hearts. When it was remarked that he had the wrong address and was surely looking for White's Club instead, the speaker was roundly shushed by men with whom he had been in complete agreement only minutes before.

William Lamb had a lifetime of social capital to draw upon and whether it was that one vote thrown to the Conservatives and brought down the government, or his betrothal to the Queen, he knew he would need to lean heavily on old friendships and family ties with the Wyndhams, the Ponsonbys and Bessboroughs and Devonshires, Lady Stanhope, Dorothea Lieven and Sarah Villiers. and the rest. His own social credit balance was perilously near to depletion.

To a man, every Whig would loudly protest his ardent Royalist sympathies, yet those same ancient families held their own Royal family in open contempt. Dour, joyless, crude, rude Germans, stout red-faced burghers transplanted onto the British throne to squat there on sufferance, the ideal of a monarchy was perpetually at odds with the reality and Melbourne was determined to guide his bride gently into the embrace of the society she must rule. Her uncle William had been a buffoon, her uncle George an obese lecher and his father a madman. Before them a succession of the worst examples of their race.

But Victoria, his Victoria – she would shine, she would bring great credit to the Crown, would restore the glamour and mystique any monarch would need to survive the winds of change buffeting Europe.  A beautiful young woman with no hint of a guttural German accent, no Teutonic tastes for the courtiers to mock, a young woman who loved to laugh and dance - she would weave a spell around the Throne of Kingdom and capture the hearts of courtiers as surely as she had commoners.

_His_ Victoria! The notion still hadn't properly settled into the commonplace; it still thrilled him anew each time his mind formed the thought. She loved him, he adored her. Melbourne felt energized, positively aglow with something he only gradually realized was happiness.

"Lord Melbourne." He heard his own name sang out in a half dozen high voices, each of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting and younger maids of honor sweeping curtsies as he strode down the hall. Melbourne had resolved he would tolerate what protocol was necessary, while diminishing any excess, and determined here was as good a place as any to start. He made an exaggerated display of looking over his shoulder as though to spot someone following.

"Ladies," he bowed in their direction, a bevy of young beauties and more assured older women sweeping their skirts in unison. "Surely that civility is not for me? I have been here daily for five years without such a greeting." He chucked his own niece under the chin playfully and extended his arm to Lady Portman, a friend from youth.

"Emma, I beg you, my dearest friend, use your influence to stop this display," he muttered, tucking her hand in his arm.

Emma Portman rolled her eyes and pursed her lips tightly. "You are to marry the Queen. That entitles you to a certain display of –" she waved her hand expressively in the direction of the women following behind in the wide marble corridor. "The Lord Chamberlain advised us on protocol since the question of precedence is unsettled. A Dukedom at least would clarify matters."

"I have been coming here daily for the past five years. I want nothing to change," he said wistfully, understanding even as he spoke that everything would change, unless he most strenuously resisted each incremental layer of pomp and formality. He was protective of Victoria's dignity and as such would tolerate a great deal of formality. On public occasions, ceremony and ritual were part of the illusion needed to sustain any monarchy. But in private, or as private as the Royal Household was capable of being, there must be more freedom, for her sake as well as his. His patience would never endure the alternative and her spirit, the carefree impulsivity of a very young woman, must be nurtured.

"Her Majesty is in the Green Room," Lady Portman intoned, arching a brow and intending, Melbourne thought, to look portentous.

"'The Green Room,'" Melbourne repeated. "That is indeed ominous. I thank you for the warning." His teasing, caressing tone made his companion laugh sharply.

"Mock me if you will. Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha is with her. They await your arrival." He saw, under her taut expression, some genuine concern, and so he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the fingertips with a courtly air.

"Good. This is the final piece of the puzzle. You need not be concerned for my sake, Emma. I think it is not the death knell to our engagement she intends to deliver." And he chucked her under the chin, much as he had twenty-two-year-old Fanny, this austere peeress who had shared so much of his early life. Caroline's cousin something-removed, one of the pack of young girls with whom Emily had grown up, always Emma was somewhere at hand, rarely smiling, never flirting, yet always caring.

"I – you're so happy, William. I only hope it lasts. You have enemies, you know. There is nothing they can do openly but some will continue dripping their venom until the last."

"I will contrive, Emma. But thank you. Now take this honor guard away." Melbourne leaned forward and laid his lips on Lady Portman's sallow cheek, not failing to see how her hand flew up and pressed the place where his kiss had fallen.

A footman opened the doors and announced him, attempting to replicate the senior steward's stentorian tones and managing a boy's changing squeak instead. Melbourne pressed a gold coin into his hand and smiled reassuringly before passing him and nodding for the door to swing closed.

The Green Drawing Room was part of the Queen's private apartments, and intimate in its proportions by the standards of the palace. Decorated during King William's time, the walls were lined in green and yellow silk which clashed horribly with a red and gold carpet and coffered dome ceiling bedecked with gilt inlay.

The Queen was as dwarfed here as she was in other garish overbright chambers, but her presence and the dignity inherent in her perfect posture drew one's eyes instantly to her slight figure. She rose when Melbourne came in, and he admired the picture she made in a deceptively simple silk gown that showed her shoulders and long graceful neck to advantage. Her hair was dressed simply in a chignon, wisps escaping to prettily frame her face.

Melbourne dropped to one knee and kissed her outstretched hand. Rising once more, he was prepared to relinquish it until he felt the slight pressure of her fingers on his coat. Instead he casually kept hold of her as he bowed to the young man standing behind the sofa, still holding a book he had found on the overstocked shelves.

Albert was tall and gaunt, with fine ivory skin and eyes that appeared to be lined in kohl. He would sooner rather than later lose his hair, Melbourne thought, seeing the high widow's peak already receding from his long forehead.

If all else was equal – status, age, generational differences – Melbourne thought he could never imagine a friendship with this sapling. Melbourne and his brothers and friends, classmates from Eton and Cambridge, his own grown nephews, had all been bursting with energy at this age, full of laughter and chatter and verve. This prince was so stiff he moved like a grandfather, so self-contained he might disappear entirely without notice. Yet something about him – some air of pathos or melancholy under that Teutonic reserve – aroused Melbourne's compassion. _What would it be like to unlock the key to this boy's personality? To see him smile? To lose that air of grim fatalism?_

"Your Royal Highness," Melbourne said smoothly, bowing low while keeping hold of the Queen's hand in his own.

"Lord Melbourne," Albert returned, his own voice thickly accented and devoid of feeling. _No_ , Melbourne thought, _not completely devoid. He doesn't like me. He's been warned, undoubtedly. And I did deprive him of his only hope of escape from that crumbling pile they call a castle, in the Bavarian wilds._

"I am pleased to see you still in London. I had hoped to meet with you sooner but there has been so much to do and so little time to see it all done."

The three of them stood for a moment longer, and then Victoria took a seat at one end of the striped sofa and motioned for them to likewise sit.

"I would have departed for home as soon as it became apparent I was brought on a fool's errand, but Victoria requested I stay and my father was not eager for me to return home e-" Albert stopped speaking suddenly and jerked his head to throw back the lank hair which hung in his eyes.

"Empty-handed? Quite." Melbourne smiled, meeting the boy's eyes – for he could not call him a man, there was something so unformed about him – allowing him to see only warmth and lack of malice in his own.

"I am sure you wished your cousin happiness in her coming marriage," Melbourne continued. "I know she was quite eager to share the news with you first. I understand you are the same age and have corresponded for years. Your friendship was a great solace to her, almost like having the understanding and support of a brother closer in age than her own half-brother."

"Indeed, Lord Melbourne, I might have been happy to congratulate Victoria on her marriage, but I was misled in thinking I was coming to England to perform that office myself. You can see that leaves me in a very difficult position."

Melbourne thought with surprise, _the cub can think for himself_. "Fair enough. Although it was not Victoria who misled you but those who have been advocating for your marriage since you were both in the cradle, without consulting you."

Albert merely shrugged. "I won't pretend I am brokenhearted. But I've been played for a fool and I only wish to leave with whatever remains of my dignity intact."

"Leave and go where?" Melbourne asked curiously.

It was Albert's turn to be surprised. He reflected on the question seriously, surely not for the first time.

"Back to Rosenau, I suppose. I will ask my father once more to let Ernst take my place in the marriage mart and be permitted to return to the University of Bonn."

"What will you do there?" Victoria asked. She had been silent throughout and Melbourne was willing enough to take the lead in what was inevitably a painful encounter for any young woman in her situation.

"Teach, if I can. I am well suited for academics and not so much for the life of a courtier." He laughed for the first time and it brightened his entire face, so that he was almost handsome, Melbourne thought. "I am not so sorry that I did not have to marry you and learn to be content with all this grandeur. But I am very sorry that my father and brother will suffer as a result. My father has very expensive tastes, and my brother likewise. Ernst has always been a good brother and I would have liked to be in a position to help him."

"Perhaps you still can, Albert. If you want to teach, or continue your studies, you could do that in England. You are my cousin and I would like us to become friends as well. Lord Melbourne agrees."

"How could I do that, Victoria? I am penniless. I would have to work and support myself."

Melbourne answered for Victoria. "Her Majesty has proposed granting you an income sufficient to maintain a home. Claremont, I believe, is a Crown holding. I would propose a bill for your naturalization, before there's a change in government. A title would be more difficult, manly because there would be resistance to your taking a seat in the House of Lords, but we could work something out to everyone's satisfaction.""

"I would like you to advise me, Albert, on matters of science and agriculture and all those interests you write so enthusiastically about. I want to understand those things in greater detail and, as you said once, encourage our British inventors to surpass the rest of the world. For such advise, you would be entitled to an income from my personal revenue."

"You will have Lord Melbourne to advise you," Albert retorted, sounding sullen once more. Melbourne laughed easily, taking no offense.

"Yes, she will, but not on matters such as those. I am afraid my knowledge of manufacturing methods and science and mathematics is non-existent. I will learn from you at Her Majesty's side."

Victoria's small hand found its way into his again and Melbourne folded his fingers over hers.

"I will – may I think about this very unexpected offer? I am surprised and very affected by this, Victoria. Lord Melbourne, you will be husband and master of her home, if not her country. Do you agree to this? It will not offend you, to have me at your Court, in your country?"

"I think the country – and the Court – is big enough for both of us. No, I do not mind."

"Claremont is the estate our Uncle Leopold thinks of as his. He will not be pleased." 

"it is a Crown property, given at the pleasure of the Queen," Victoria answered sharply. Melbourne squeezed her hand warningly. They had his interest piqued, Melbourne meant to convey. Now let him come to us with his agreement.

They talked in a desultory fashion for only a few minutes longer before the Prince begged leave to withdraw. When he was gone and Melbourne had resumed his seat, Victoria launched herself across the expanse of sofa between them. He caught her in his arms and set her down on his lap.

"So, Mrs. Melbourne, what do you think? Should I be concerned that you propose to install a jilted ex-fiancé at Court, right under my nose?" He was laughing softly as he spoke, because Victoria was nuzzling at his neck, her fingers loosening his carefully arranged cravat. His own hands glided over the smooth silk surface of her gown, thumbs caressing her pert breasts.

"I want you to take me to bed, Lord M," she crooned, deliberately squirming on his lap to maximum effect. "It's been so long…I need to feel you…"

"My love, it's daylight and we are surrounded by people. Hundreds of people, thousands…" as he spoke, Melbourne shifted so that she could recline more comfortably, using the arm of the sofa for support, and then he stroked her leg, covered by silk stocking. Victoria purred, looping her arms around his neck and combing through his dark curls with her fingers.

"Come to me tonight? Please?" Victoria's eyes were pleading, beguiling and, he saw with no small satisfaction, growing languid with desire. Even as he shook his head with mock sternness he continued exploration under the layers of petticoats. Victoria's legs fell apart with abandon and he studied every change in her expression, delectable lips dropping open, lids heavy over those sparkling blue eyes. When he neared the warm damp source of her pleasure Melbourne teased, lightening the pressure of his fingertips so that he barely made contact, and then established a rhythmic pattern, drawing ever closer to that nub at her core. When he reached it she groaned, letting her head roll onto his shoulder heavily while her hips began moving.

"Ssshhh, sweetheart, relax. Let me…" his eyes never left her face, devouring every flicker of expression like nectar as he teased and plied and stroked, finding the precise degree of approach and retreat to prolong her pleasure until finally he gave her release. Victoria shuddered in his arms, her limbs trembling almost violently, and when the waves seemed to recede he chose the perfect moment to bring her to a peak once more.

Sated, Victoria rested limply in his embrace and her breath was warm against his neck. Then she raised her eyes to his and began to reach for him. "Let me-" He was still painfully hard, but it would subside and leave him all the readier when the time came to properly have her once more.

"Not now, sweetheart. This was for you. But I do have something else for you."

Melbourne helped her to rise and adjusted her clothing with the familiar dexterity of a lady's maid. Then he reached into his pocket and removed a small leather box.

"Victoria, if I haven't properly asked you yet – will you marry me?" He'd intended to sound nonchalant, even playful. They had come too far for a ceremonious proposal, but when he began to speak Melbourne felt his throat grow thick, his voice hoarse with the strength of his emotion.

"Oh yes," she breathed. He took the ring from its case – a modest enough piece, considering that it would be worn by a woman who had the proverbial King's ransom in jewels – and slide it onto her finger. Melbourne was momentarily aware of overwhelming pride and more than a little gratitude, seeing this beautiful girl wear his ring on her small white hand.

"Now, Mrs. Melbourne, you see we are that much closer to becoming man and wife."

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

Victoria sat at her worktable, chin in hand, so intensely focused on the passage she pored over that her brow furrowed and her nose scrunched up most adorably, Lord Melbourne thought.

Melbourne himself was no stranger to diligence and hard work. In his case he had long concealed the degree of preparation involved in every matter which came before him, preferring to maintain the insouciant manner which charmed and dismayed observers in equal measure. In Victoria's, her conscientious determination to understand every facet of every issue which came before her had won his immediate respect.

She was a credit to the careful education provided by Louise Lehzen, tutor Dr. George Davys and those others enlisted to impart knowledge of the three languages she spoke fluently in addition to her grasp of Latin and ancient Greek. Above all he knew it was her own work ethic and strong sense of duty as well as her own awareness of what was lacking in her education that compelled Victoria to devote hours of concentrated effort to the business of government.

Melbourne often thought that if all else had transpired differently, if she was not who she was, he would still count it his greatest, perhaps only, legacy, to have had a part in guiding the development of this girl who was destined to become a great ruler.

Victoria methodically lined up the work she wished to review – a legal appeal, from the looks of it - the journal in which she would note pertinent points for later consideration and _Blackstone's Commentaries on the Laws of England_. The latter nearly elicited a groan from Melbourne, who had had the contents crammed down his throat during his own preparation for a legal career, but Victoria's volumes appeared both well-used and well-cared-for, pages marked carefully with the thin samplers she had embroidered as a child. He failed to entirely conceal a small smile, wistfully imagining he had met the heir apparent when she was Princess Alexandrina Victoria. But if he had encountered her, what then? Would the precocious little Princess have struck him as remarkable as the newly minted Queen had done?

No matter what had transpired after Melbourne knew his conscience was clear and his motives pure when he first knelt before her, seeing only an impossibly small and even more impossibly self-possessed girl. Her liquid dark blue eyes were cool and measuring as she'd assessed her minister before offering poised assurance that she wished him to continue in office. A girl of eighteen, and a very young eighteen, extending her reassurance to a senior statesman more than old enough to be her father, and doing so in a way which left no doubt who would dominate their encounters. No, he thought, he'd had no thought _then_ other than serving out his term as peacefully as he could. The rest had come later, sneaking up on him like a thief in the night. Matters of the flesh – _well, there's no fool like an old fool_ , Melbourne thought, because that had come last, his physical desire for her stirring only after he became aware – with something like dismay – that she had focused the full force of her eighteen-year-old desire on him.

"Lord M." Victoria's clear sweet voice pronouncing that name only she used roused him from reverie.

"William?" he responded. "Can you say 'William'? I want to hear it on your lips." A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Never mind. What, Your Majesty, may I do for you?"

"William, then. Lehzen has marked this passage and I went over it once, oh, when I was sixteen, I think, but I never understood why –"

He went to stand over her shoulder and read the passage to which she referred. His gaze flickered to the note written in her careful hand.

"If you're asking me to explain the logic, I cannot. At Trinity we debated –" Melbourne's eyes looked back over decades, describing to her the arguments he and his peers had once considered so novel and elegant, and the way they had been swiftly demolished.

Victoria looked pensive, considering what he'd said, and after a moment's consideration offered her own opinion on the matter at issue. Her mind was direct, with none of Melbourne's own dialectical thinking, but he was satisfied her reasoning was sound and told her so.

"And what do you think, Lord- William? Which side do you think has the right of it?" That heart-shaped face, the large blue eyes so much darker and more vivid than her mother's cornflower blue, narrow chin and elegant jawline – Melbourne laughed at himself, acknowledging that his attention had strayed from the subject under discussion.

"I can see the validity of all sides, ma'am, and therein lies my weakness. I might debate any opinion tolerably well, but form a firm decision? Never, if I can help it. Always, one more exception occurs. That, my love, is why you are the monarch and henceforth my only role is to _inform_ , never _advise._ "

"You are the wisest of men, William, and I am fortunate to have had you at my side to guide me. And now, to _inform_ me, and talk over those things which I must form an opinion on."

"You may _not_ form an opinion on most issues. Or rather, you may certainly _have_ an opinion and even offer it as advice, if invited, but not _persuade_."

"I know…But if something is wrong, morally wrong, and concerns my subjects, then it is my duty to object." Melbourne saw the earnestness of her expression and relented.

"Of course. Or…and mind you, we have much to work out but…in some instances, if you feel strongly about something you can not speak out about, perhaps you can use me to convey your wishes in a more circuitous fashion. Your predecessors used something of a heavy hand in promulgating their political sensibilities. I hope that if my years in politics have taught me anything, it's how to do a more delicate job of it so the Crown remains unimpeachably removed while the _Queen_ can use her influence discreetly."

They discussed the papers Wellington had sent, matters which he did not feel could be held over until a new government formed, a clemency petition directed to the Queen as last resort. Wellington had also summarized those matters which should be first on the docket when the House had a new Speaker.

"Further reform of the Poor Law? What is your opinion on that?"

"It satisfies no one entirely, ma'am. That's usually a good indication you have the best law you're going to get in a parliamentary system."

"But does it provide real help for the poor? Almshouses and workhouses are horrible places where no one goes if they can help it. Previously direct aid was provided by the parishes."

"And the complaint was that able-bodied men capable of working were lolling about on the dole. And…there was a faction who believed in the precept 'out of sight, out of mind.' If the system set up for relief of the poor is so onerous many choose not to surrender to their care, perhaps those many were not truly in need to begin with."

"That seems harsh! Surely anyone would work at an honest job, who could find one that paid enough for them to support their families. And without children having to leave school to work."

Melbourne, enjoying immensely these opportunities to share what he knew with his Queen and admittedly gratified by her rapt interest, took a seat in the chair before her desk.

"You are talking like those who met and devised what some call the Berkshire Bread Act, others the Speenhamland System. Because of growing food shortages – some blamed poor harvests, others the avarice of middlemen – a group of magistrates in Berkshire hammered out a trial programme to supplement wages and offer a universal minimum income. Pitt was an early enthusiast who sought to implement it nationally but that never went anywhere. During my last months as Home Secretary and the short time I was Premier in '34, those who were opposed were successful in passing the Poor Law reforms. A few southern counties continued the experiment – those rioters I had to deal with most harshly were violent advocates of subsidized income – but it was pretty much done by '35."

"You have not told me your opinion. What did you think of income subsidies and direct aid to the poor?" Melbourne saw the light of moral fervor in her eyes and sighed.

"Your heart does you credit, ma'am, but the matter is a great deal more complicated. As things always are when the government involves itself in the affairs of its citizens. Leave the poor alone and spare them a universal system of pauperism which breeds dependence and discourages individual responsibility. The population of poor actually _increased_ in those counties which practiced what some called _socialism_."

"But…couldn't that have been because children lived who otherwise might have died? That the people were healthier, and did not die of outright starvation?"

"There are those who would argue it is nature's way, as it is in the wild, to improve the breeding stock by winnowing out those who are weak or unable to care for themselves."

He knew he had gone too far when he saw those blue eyes widen in shock, heard her sharp intake of breath, and was instantly sorry that she was not yet able – and perhaps never would be – to engage in the sort of detached philosophical arguments which reduced the subjects she saw as people in need of her protection, to mere abstractions. That was as it should be, Melbourne thought. A Queen should not be a pragmatist. She must exemplify the ideals of the nation, not the sometimes-harsh practical reality.

"As I told you, ma'am, my curse is that I can see all sides of every issue. I did not say those were my views, only that there are those who hold them. My own view of the matter is, it is right and proper that the sovereign be the heart and conscience of the nation. Leave the hard decisions to a government freely elected to reflect the will of respectable subjects. And you, ma'am, can always temper justice with mercy."

Melbourne noted approvingly that she was able to file away the information for further reflection without undue rumination. It would continue to be a delicate dance for her, learning to find her own balance between the natural impulses of an innately generous and compassionate heart, and the practical necessities which often required compromise.

He tried to confine their moments of affection to such times as they were assured of privacy, but Melbourne found small breaches of etiquette coming more often, more naturally. As she continued to work, lining passages in _Blackstone_ and making notes on a sheet of paper, he stood behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders, the lightest, most nearly chaste of touches but contact they both craved nonetheless.

She continued to write diligently until Baroness Lehzen entered, followed by a page pushing a tea cart. The Baroness acted as Victoria's private secretary, and it was often her hand rather than the Queen's which wrote out the lengthy official correspondence Victoria composed. Melbourne had long sensed the Baroness was not nearly as hostile as she seemed to appear. There was no overt warmth from her certainly, but she had softened her expression on several memorable occasions to something resembling a smile. He was comfortable with the fact that she entertained no ambitions and no loyalty to anyone other than Victoria.

"Drina – Your Majesty, Lord Melbourne – I have had them bring something to tide you over until dinner."

Melbourne respected the dour spinster greatly and went out of his way to show her careful courtesy.

"Thank you, Baroness. But you will join us, of course?" The Baroness nodded slightly, and Melbourne saw once again that subtle softening of her sharp features which he thought reflected softening of her disapproval. For Victoria's sake, and now that of their child, he was determined to win Lehzen's friendship. _Did she suspect?_

Victoria came around the desk and sat beside her former governess on the sofa across from Melbourne, accepting the first cup of tea.

"I think you prefer coffee, Lord Melbourne?" Lehzen poured from a separate carafe which indeed contained coffee – palace coffee, he saw, which was a weak anemic imitation of the French brew he insisted his own servants concoct. He accepted it with a show of pleasure and inhaled the steam as he listened to the Baroness coax Victoria to eat, tempting her with a selection of cakes and pastries. She clucked when Victoria laughingly declined.

"I will get fat and hideous before my wedding, Lehzen."

"I think Lord Melbourne would prefer you fat and healthy than thin and _verschwenden_ ," Lehzen answered, looking to Melbourne for his support. _She does know_ , he thought jubilantly. It suddenly seemed important, that they share news of the fragile life within Victoria with someone else.

Melbourne understood, perhaps far better than Victoria, how early it was to be invested in what was not even medically certain. And once certain, he knew how readily early pregnancies could be lost. Caro had suffered several miscarriages in the first three months, and a frail daughter born too soon who had died in his arms. Rationally he told himself if it was not meant to be, there would be time enough to get her with child and much joy in the attempt. She might simply be late in her courses, for conception during the first weeks of new intimacy, while possible, was by no means probable. Reason suggested that her schedule might have simply gone awry. Yet something in his heart longed for _this_  dream child, no matter how inconveniently timed.

"I will take that pastry there, Baroness, and Victoria will please me by sharing it." _There_ , he thought, the Baroness can make what she will of my familiarity. Certain she would be disapproving, even scandalized, and look down her long thin nose at him, Melbourne was instead rewarded with a flickering smile from the dour spinster, and laughter from Victoria.

"You will be sorry when I am so large I don't fit into my gown," she pronounced. "But I will eat, and then I must get back to work."

**

As soon as the Baroness supervised removal of the refreshments and departed, Melbourne turned to Victoria. She looked up questioningly.

"Why don't you put the work aside and sit with your ladies? You do have a wedding to plan and gowns and furbelows and all the ornamentation that goes with it. England's Queen will only wed once, and the people expect a splendid affair."

"We have so little time to prepare and I'm not sure I want something to private to be on display to the world. But I will do as you suggest. Harriet has been asking me to make a final decision on my veil. Will you join us?"

"I have an engagement in town," Melbourne said tentatively. "I will not dine at the palace tonight."

"Will you return? Melbourne looked down at her hopeful, honest face and his heart swelled almost painfully with love.

"There is a matter I must attend to. Do you trust me?"

Victoria frowned at his question. "Yes, of course I trust you. Why do you ask?"

"My engagement is at Caroline Norton's home."

He saw her wince slightly at mention of the name, but she smoothed her features almost immediately. A guarded look replaced the previously open expression in her eyes, and he wished he could touch her. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure the others were occupied, he lifted a hand to her soft cheek and stroked it.

"Hardly a tête-à-tête." Melbourne paused. "A political dinner, and upwards of a dozen at the salon to follow. Wellington will be there, and Stockmar. Lyndhurst and Greville and some others with whom I must confer."

"And that is why you told me where you are going? Because you knew otherwise, Stockmar would manage to do so?"

Melbourne was momentarily surprised at her perspicacity. Despite a quick mind and keen intelligence, subtlety did not come naturally to one of her guileless nature. He nodded sheepishly.

"Probably. Only because I have no wish to upset you. But if not for Stockmar, I would not be going so it's a moot point. Victoria, there is nothing between Caroline and I – nothing but some residual feelings of friendship, which she has sorely strained. There has been nothing else since I became your Prime Minister. I can't say I will never see her again, because every deal in London is made in her parlor."

"I will never be quite comfortable knowing you were once intimate with that woman." Victoria sighed. "But do what you must. What will you say to Stockmar?"

"I think we should know where we stand, he and I. He's as devious and as slippery as a- well, not an easy man to pin down and talk straight, but I shall contrive."

"Will you order him out of the country?"

"If only I could. Unfortunately, his roots – or should I say tentacles? – are deeply planted here. But if he is wise he will work with us and not against us. I have friends too, and supporters who are pleased enough not to be under the thumb of a foreign power once again."

Victoria looked doubtful, but she laid her hand on his own. "If you must," she sighed. "I wish you could just talk to him here. The man is always underfoot."

Melbourne's lips quirked, as though he found something amusing. He laid the very tips of his fingers on her jaw and delicately kissed each of Victoria's eyelids, then the soft skin beside each, on her temples and down her jawline. He felt her quiver under his touch.

"I love you more than you can possibly imagine, my darling. You have no need to fear anyone can come between us."

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and her eyes were swimming when she raised them to his face.

"I used to dream of hearing you say that. I never knew you would return my feelings." He rested his forehead against hers and stroked the soft hairs at the back of her neck. When Victoria sighed with contentment he felt the soft puff of her breath through his shirt.

"Now you know," Melbourne whispered.

"Now I know," she whispered her agreement.


	23. Chapter 23

_Caroline Norton_

The evening was moderately advanced when Lord Melbourne trod up the familiar steps to Caroline Norton's abode. He derived some assurance from the merry sounds within that she at least would be too well occupied playing hostess to corner him and renew unpleasantness – or the reverse.

His hope was not realized. When the wide door swung open, it was not a butler on the other side but Caroline herself. A slender sloe-eyed beauty, at 32 she had grown into her looks and was, if anything, even handsomer than when he had met her first more than a decade before. It was not mere beauty which had attracted him, but her bold, singular manner, wit and avant-garde intellect. He knew himself to be always swayed by strong feminine character and momentarily remembered how easily Caroline had drawn him from Lady Stanhope's bed to her own within a fortnight of their introduction.

"William!" Caroline crooned, in her husky, almost masculine voice. "This is indeed a surprise."

Melbourne's mouth quirked in a crooked, wry smile. "Really? Yet you answered my note, when I wrote you that I intended to appear tonight."

Not one to be easily abashed, Caroline Norton laughed. "You must allow me my girlish vapors, William. Surely it's what you've become accustomed to."

Melbourne stepped past her, pausing only to lift an eyebrow and pin her with his green-eyed stare.

"None of that, Caroline. Jealousy doesn't become you. In fact, it quite detracts from your charm, to appear so needy and insecure."

"Ouch!" She took his hat and handed it to the footman standing behind her. "You sting me. Come in, say hello. I believe you know everyone."

Melbourne did indeed recognize most of the men gathered in her drawing room. Men, because no respectable woman would be seen socially with the scandalous Mrs. Norton, despite their husbands and brothers finding her patronage indispensable, and she would not tolerate the competition posed by _unrespectable_ females. Caroline must always be queen bee, surrounded by males eager to worship at her feet, Melbourne thought wryly. He had been secretly concerned, lest her old irresistible appeal, or even just the lure of familiar sensuality, tug at him, and was pleased that she aroused no response. He would, of course, have resisted temptation, if temptation was there, but it made things far easier that his infatuation had run its course. Even when she swayed against him seductively, so her hip bumped against his, he felt no answering response and merely smirked at her.

"I will not warn you twice, Caroline," he murmured, maintaining his easy smile, moving past her to greet her other guests.

Sexual fidelity as an ideal, far less a practice, was not a concept with which he was familiar. Growing up, he had had no such example, either in his mother, the celebrated Elizabeth, Lady Melbourne, or in the marriages he saw in society. Even those who had married for love rarely limited their affections to the conjugal bed, once an heir had been provided. In his his own marriage it had been Caro's obsessive need to make herself noticed and trumpet her conquest, with the resultant burn of humiliating scandal, that outraged society and his family. Melbourne had had his own lights o'love, and if Caro had proceeded with tact and discretion, it might have been far easier borne.

Benjamin Disraeli, as expected, was present, as firmly attached to Caroline's skirts as he had ever been. He owed as much of his early success to Mrs. Norton, as he did to the fortune his wife brought to their marriage. By all accounts, their very practical union had turned into a love match, although Mary Anne was several years older and not a notable beauty. Melbourne idly wondered whether she objected to her husband's close ties to such a celebrated adulteress, or if the investment of her own ambition outweighed such sentimentality.

Mr. Disraeli buttonholed Melbourne and spent several minutes hinting broadly at his own potential contributions to a coalition government. Formerly a conservative Whig, lately a liberal Tory, Disraeli's political radicalism had offended Melbourne's centrist sensibilities long since, and his nearly-agitated intensity of manner required concentrated effort to avoid visible recoil.

Charles Greville lounged on a tapestried divan, his small bright eyes darting about the room before landing on Melbourne with a greedy light. Greville, Clerk of the Queen's Privy Council, might be considered a gadfly at best, except he spent inordinate time and effort documenting the foibles of society in his legendary diaries and no one saw him who did not fear figuring in the gossipy accounts he would write of the encounter.

"Lord Melbourne, come! Sit here! I so long to talk with you," Greville exhorted, waving a hand for emphasis. He was a portly fellow, in what Melbourne considered unfortunately tight yellow pantaloons and a hideously striped waistcoat. Something in the way he continually moistened his plump lips was off-putting, and his bulging eyes blinked rapidly, in the manner of a coy maiden.

"Greville," Melbourne shook hands, deciding that until the man he had come to see arrived, placating the man might be his best course.

Caroline Norton brought him a glass of sherry and disported herself on a footstool in front of him, in much the same pose she had once assumed when they made little attempt to hide their intimate arrangement.

"Lord Melbourne, you must tell us news of your marriage," she said in honeyed tones. Greville sat up straighter, apparently anticipating a good show.

"What news is that, Caroline?" Melbourne replied smoothly. "I think the banns announced from the pulpit last Sunday by our good Blomfield comprised the latest news. I can add nothing of interest."

"Oh, you! Weddings are always of interest. For instance, other than the obvious – why _you_ – I would ask, why so soon? Royal weddings take a year or more to plan." Caroline's question was clearly rehearsed, Melbourne thought, and by the look she exchanged with Charles Greville, well-planned.

He smiled mildly, glancing from one to the other. "Then I suppose I would have to answer, _why not me?_ And, if not now, then when would you prefer?"

Stung once more and this time unable to hide it, a flush tinted her high cheekbones.

"I would prefer never, if it were up to me," she snapped. "But I suppose it's quite medieval to raise the issue of precontracts as an objection to marriage."

"As I recall – Charles, you attended Trinity at nearly the same time as I – precontracts were never a valid impediment to marriage, if not based in an actual fully consummated union performed in accordance with the Laws of the Church. Caroline, I'm shocked – it's quite _Roman_ of you to raise an issue not heard since Henry disposed of poor Katherine in…what was it? 1529? Or is George turning from divorce to annulment to dispose of you?"

"You above all should know George has no cause to divorce me, William. The trial disposed of that claim when it returned a verdict of _not proven_." Melbourne saw her eyes flashing and knew her always-quick temper had reached the boiling point. He knew he should not toy with her, but it was so _easy_ to rile her up and her overweening ego needed a lesson in humility.

"The trial only addressed _my_ innocence, Madame. I can't speak to what else poor George might complain of." He smiled gently to take just some of the bite from his retort.

"Now, now, you two…I vow, you bicker like old lovers," Greville clucked, almost swooning with delight at the display to which he was privy.

"'Old', Charles? Beware, the lady will bite your head off for that adjective." Melbourne looked about and flicked a finger to summon the footman passing cordials on a tray. He requested dry champagne and Caroline instantly chimed in her request for the same, advising her servant to bring up several bottles and keep them on ice.

"In the event you grow thirsty later, William," she said suggestively, trailing a finger across his knee.

"Very considerate, Madame. Your cook always was heavy-handed with spices. Or have you replaced him with someone more adept?"

The bell rang once more and those present looked around, mentally cataloging their fellow guests. Caroline excused herself and went to greet the newcomer. Melbourne took the opportunity provided by her absence to excuse himself as well and went to stand near the doorway. His nephew Will, one of Caroline's favorite young cicisbeo, was opening a bottle of champagne.

"Uncle," Will handed him one. "Your _brut_."

"You are still frequenting _La Norton_ 's salons, I see. Beware lest she capture you in her web. I fear you are no match for her appetites." He saw the younger man flush and look away and had his suspicious confirmed. "Well, well. I can only say I wish you the best of it then. Only don't, whatever you do, fall in love. She is not the sort of woman a man gives his heart – or his name."

Caroline slid neatly between them and laid her hands possessively on Will's forearms. "Dearest Will, I need you to act as host tonight. Can you do that for me? Take me in to dinner and stay at my side later?" He nodded so enthusiastically that Melbourne almost flinched. _Oh well, part of every young man's education_ , he thought philosophically, _is to have one's heart broken at least once by an older woman._

"But now…you will perform the duties of a host by amusing our guests while I take your uncle away for a private word?"

Melbourne cursed himself for falling into her trap, wanting nothing more than to refuse her outright, knowing that to do so would cause a scene. Instead he nodded curtly and moved into the dining room, just across a short hallway and in plain sight of the assembly. He would, he thought, make it clear there would be no tête-à-tête in a more private chamber.

She smoothed long tight sleeves of her off-the-shoulder silk gown, showing long elegant white hands to advantage. Chronically impoverished, Caroline Norton relied on impeccable taste to compensate for lack of jewels and finery and unerringly knew just what best complemented her long swan's neck and vivid dark coloring. From her own arms, her hands slid to his and she picked up his hands, gripping them tightly.

"There are few trodden on in this world who do not sting in return," she hissed. "If you do not present me to the Queen before your marriage, I might go public with some of the letters you wrote me, so there is no doubt in her mind the exact nature of our liaison. If you claim to have lacked the influence before, as Minister, to persuade her to receive me, you may surely now do so as her affianced husband."

"Caroline, I have explained ad nauseum that the enemies of royalty are only too eager to look for signs of impropriety in the Court of a young Queen. As to your threats – Her Majesty is aware of the nature of our past relationship – there is nothing you could publish which would sway her opinion except to further despise you."

"William! Once you said you could not go a month without seeing me when I wished to only travel abroad. Once you said –"

"Once I'm sure I said many foolish things, as men will in the first throes of passion. It does not become you to cling so. Others before you have conducted themselves with dignity and as a result, remain cherished friends. You propose to set yourself up as my enemy and, more importantly, the enemy of my wife."

"I never thought to see you caught up in the temptation of ambition and glory, of power and the favor of princes. I thought you were more than that, better than that."

Melbourne smirked. "Please do not enact these tragedies. The more you embrace drama, the more it becomes comedy instead. We had our run, and it was amusing. Now be a good girl and tell me we can be friends. After my marriage I will discuss with Victoria the means of receiving you at a levée without bringing undue attention on either her or you. The best thing you can do in the meantime is to avoid the appearance of obsession."

"Do you really love her?" Melbourne heard the note of genuine inquiry and determined he would reward it in kind.

"Oh yes," he answered with equal sincerity. "More than I ever thought it possible to love another."

**

Stockmar did not join the party at dinner. The meal was bearable, the conversation lively and enjoyable. With her mercurial temper, Caroline had switched off her venomous anger and was all gaiety and good humor, dividing her attention equitably amongst those present. An excellent hostess, she deftly encouraged each of the men at table to shine, bringing first one, then another into whatever topic might most appeal to them. As the only woman present at her own table, she had the port brought in and invited those who wished, to smoke at her table, laughingly expressing a wish to puff on a cigarillo herself.

It was not until they had returned to the drawing room once more, and a card game had begun amongst a few of the more inveterate gamblers present, than Baron Stockmar rang the bell. His arrival coincided with the early departure of several gentlemen, so there was several minutes' commotion which gave Melbourne the opportunity to step discreetly into the small study adjacent Caroline's foyer. He depended upon Caroline's residual lingering loyalty – or her practicality, in understanding that it was he and not Leopold's agent who would now grant her the coveted entrée into society she desired - to allow him a few minutes' private conversation with the good Baron. He was not mistaken. If a look of surprise flickered briefly in those fine dark eyes, she covered it well by moving neatly around the other man and leaving him standing in proximity to Melbourne.

"Baron, if you please. A few minutes of your time."

Stockmar, self-contained and ever alert to circumstances around him, immediately inclined his head and favored Melbourne with a conciliatory smile which didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lord Melbourne, this is a pleasant surprise."

"I am glad of the opportunity to speak with you. I think we have much to discuss."

"Always, I am at your service, Lord Melbourne." He bobbed his head in a small stiff nod, perhaps meant to signify a bow.

"You have not yet offered your congratulations on my marriage. I am sure it took you by surprise. Have you had time to adjust?"

"'Adjust', Lord Melbourne? That is an unusual choice of words."

"Unusual? Perhaps. But so are the circumstances. I am sure you were not surprised, because I think you see much others fail to notice. You are a superb student of human nature, are you not? Or would 'master' be more accurate?"

Stockmar's careful smile never wavered. "You flatter me."

"No, I think I only give credit where credit is due. You are a master at observation and manipulation of others. It is a skill I recognize. I have some competence at _observing_ but none whatsoever at manipulating. It has always seemed to be far too much effort for too little reward, I suppose. But you – ah! You have a genius for it."

"I should thank you, but I am not sure I understand your meaning."

"You have still not congratulated me on my marriage, Baron," Melbourne repeated, and suddenly his tone changed from lazy good humor to iciness. The hooded green eyes, customarily conveying only gentle humor, narrowed.

"I congratulate you on your marriage then, Lord Melbourne," Stockmar intoned, his own voice stiff.

"And your master, Leopold. Do you deliver his well wishes also?"

"My master will communicate with Her Majesty directly on the subject of her marriage."

"His nephew has already congratulated me and wishes Her Majesty well. Albert intends to stay in England, did you know? Her Majesty has generously given him lifetime use of Claremont, and I have put forth a Naturalization Bill which will be read next week. I think the boy will do well here, out from under the…. responsibilities which weighed heavily upon him."

"He has only a few hours ago informed me. I have written to the King of Belgium to tell him. It is a family affair which I do not feel comfortable discussing with you."

"But Her Majesty's family will soon be mine, Baron. And there's not a damn thing you or your master can do to stop that. I would like to invite you to return to the continent as well, at your earliest convenience. If the King of the Belgians journeys to London for our wedding you can return with him. If not…then when you can arrange travel, you have Her Majesty's permission to depart."

Stockmar smiled tightly.

"Do I understand you are _telling_ me to leave the country? Do you really want to begin your _marriage_ ," and Melbourne heard the sneering when he pronounced the word, "with such hostility amongst your new _family_?"

"You, Baron, are not _family_. You are a hired servant, a leftover from Princess Charlotte, when your only job was to keep her alive. A job you failed at. Yet Leopold kept you at his side. A remarkably forgiving man. I would not be so forgiving, in his shoes."

"You compliment my skill at what you call _manipulation_ , Lord Melbourne. Yet it was not I who influenced an eighteen-year-old girl, who seduced her and convinced her to marry a man forty years her senior. To squander all the goodwill of the people in doing so. To begin her reign, under the cloud of scandal and even suspicion. Do you imagine the country – more importantly, the Crowned Heads of Europe – will readily accept any heir the Queen produces of her union with a commoner, a _politician_? A seducer, a corrupter?"

Melbourne's hand shot out and gripped the man's scrawny throat, crushing the high points of his starched collar. He squeezed without obvious effort, until Stockmar's already-bulging eyes pushed further out, the whites exposed all around.

Slowly, gradually, he increased the pressure until finally he relaxed his grip.

"Whether we have a child next year, or next month, or never – Victoria will be a great Queen, and Britain a great nation. And I will be her husband. Do you understand? There's nothing you can do to alter that."

"You will be her husband, perhaps. But how much influence will you have? How much real power? Less, certainly, than you had as Prime Minister. A Consort is –" he snapped his fingers with a loud crack. " – nothing. In this country, nothing."

Stockmar took a step back, futilely attempting to repair the damage to his rumpled collar, straightening his neckcloth. "Do you understand what you have ruined? Have you looked farther than your own self-interest? Your own desire? Victoria and Albert could have produced children who would go on to rule every nation in Europe. A child of theirs could have united the German principalities into one nation, another could have ruled Russia, another – "

Melbourne laughed easily. "What nonsense is this?"

"If united by blood and marriage, the Coburg dynasty could have put an end to the internecine warfare that bloodies Europe every decade. Could have brought Russia into the fold. Could have brought peace to the _world_ in another generation or two. With all civilized nations ruled by one great family, war could have finally been abolished. Do you understand what your greed and lust have ruined?"

"That was your goal? Leopold's? Not Coburg's certainly, I doubt Ernst the father or the son ever entertained such grandiose ambitions. Nevertheless…we digress. You will cease your meddling here, in England, at our Court. Victoria has made her choice and it is not Albert. It was never his either, by the way, but I'm sure that doesn't concern you."

"I do study human nature, Lord Melbourne. How long do you realistically think you will remain her husband? She is twenty-one. I may have lost this battle, but the war will be a long one. If you get a child on her – if you've already done so – do you really imagine you will be alive when that child is grown? And if not, to whom will she look, a young widow, to help her raise that child? Her family, of course. You have only delayed our plans, but I am a patient man. I can wait. If Victoria and Albert do not play the roles history had intended them, then that child you leave behind will be ours to shape and guide."

Melbourne's hand shot out once more, this time gripping only so he could lash out sharply with the other, the back of his hand colliding with an audible crack against the other man's face. Stockmar's own hand flew up and came away covered with blood.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Stockmar fastidiously dabbed at his nose with a snowy white handkerchief until satisfied the blood had slowed to a trickle.

"You will give my regrets to our hostess, Lord Melbourne? I must leave prematurely. But please, enjoy the rest of your evening. I'm sure Mrs. Norton wishes to enjoy your company." Melbourne watched the man with grudging respect as he adjusted his clothing once more and squared his shoulders. He knew he had made an enemy, or rather had openly declared his enmity for a very dangerous adversary. The man had never been a friend, but now he had been forced to declare himself a foe. Whatever direction his next attack came from, it would be unexpected, certainly. Melbourne shrugged. As long as he had Victoria, there was nothing else Stockmar could threaten. _No_ , he thought. _Tomorrow all would be forgotten, at least ostensibly. Stockmar's stock in trade was his near-legendary ability to ingratiate himself. Next would come the apology, and a gratuitous effort to make amends. But never, as long as they coveted the unfettered influence over the English Court, would Stockmar be truly neutralized._

**

No sentry remained in the corridor leading to the private apartments. That was as it should be, yet Melbourne resolved that as soon as they were married he would reinstate the post. Victoria should not be left unguarded.

Nevertheless, for now, at least, he would take advantage once again, walking with quiet confidence around the final bend in the intersecting hallways, turning to the east once more. It was past two in the morning, for he had lingered past time when the other guests had left, drinking Caroline's champagne and letting the rumble of conversation soothe his jangled nerves. He was not tipsy, in fact was only slightly less tense than immediately after his encounter with the Baron, but he was feeling decidedly reckless. Knowing that they should not risk the outcry of discovery so close to the wedding, knowing that he was a fool for taking such a chance, yet needing to see her.

Melbourne told himself he would only look in on her, nearly convincing himself that it was merely his need to glimpse her sweet face which compelled him to enter the dark apartment. But he knew that was not entirely true. Some potent brew of Caroline's argumentativeness, the pull of old memories awakened by his presence in her home, and the surge of ungovernable anger Stockmar had roused – he had not manhandled another for as long as he could remember, and losing control dismayed him – had stirred him so powerfully he thrummed with need.

Stepping quietly through the small private drawing room, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by a thick rug, Melbourne entered Victoria's bedchamber. She slept in the great four-poster bed, curled on her side with her back to him, dark hair shining in the moonlight. He knew he should not awaken her and resolved to only watch over her slumber before retreating to his own chamber and his own company, but instead pulled off his jacket and undid his cravat. The strap of her nightdress had fallen over one bare shoulder and he gently pushed it back up. _Wake up_ , he willed her. _Wake up, darling, I need you._

Melbourne lowered himself onto the bed and sat beside her, wanting, needing to wake her, feeling like an ogre for entertaining the thought. Of its own accord his hand slid under the bedcovers and stroked the velvety-soft skin of her arm. When she did not stir he leaned back against the headboard, fully determined to only listen to her soft breathing, content to be beside her. After a few minutes he slid down, hoping sleep would take him and allow him a few hours' rest before he must leave her once more, to be respectably awakened by her maids at eight.

But sleep would not come yet – his need was painful, pulsing and throbbing, demanding release. Her warmth, the sweet smell of her, tormented him and he thought the best thing he could do was to leave. He genuinely planned to do so and was caught by surprise when instead he turned onto his side, shaping himself around her. As though in response to his nearness Victoria shifted, pressing against him and squirming slightly so that he groaned aloud at the sweet torment. With exquisite care he slid his hand along the length of her thigh under the light lawn fabric of her nightdress, stroking her skin. Then she did wake, enough at least to fold herself more tightly into the curve of his body. He found her and allowed his fingers to dance about, tickling with his fingertips until she sought out his touch.

Victoria never fully woke, or if she did she gave no sign, but when she bucked against his hand he slid himself into the crevice between her thighs and moved back and forth into the silky warmth, finding their familiar rhythm. When her body told him she was ready he pushed in and was instantly rewarded by her soft mewling whimper of pleasure. He wrapped his arm around her and used his fingers to rub and delicately tug at the small nub while he thrust, holding himself back until he felt her tighten around him in spasmodic waves. Then he let go with a great guttural groan.

**

"Good night, Lord M," she whispered, just as he wondered whether she had ever truly wakened. He heard her giggle softly.

"So, you are awake, ma'am. I wondered…"

"It's quite nice to pretend otherwise and just let you…do as you will…"

Melbourne laughed too, all tension from earlier vanished. "Good night, my love." He kept his arm around her, his body curved around hers protectively, and she folded her hands over his where it lay at her waist.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Updated to omit 21st century terminology with loose, overbroad definitions which might upset sensitive readers. Nothing substantive has changed so feel free to skip and wait for the next chapter to post tonight.
> 
> **Other than "seeing" a certain actor and actress in my head, and "hearing" a distinctive voice, everything I write is based on original source material and should bear no resemblance to any past or present film or television series. Certainly, the one-dimensional mustache-twirling cartoon villains seen elsewhere do not reside herein. (I might be prejudiced but I think that same actor could have brought every bit as much nuanced depth and subtlety to the roles of Conroy, Cumberland or Leopold.) It's all about the wise, whimsical, wonderful and utterly captivating historical William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne.
> 
> ***Bonus points for spotting the phrase borrowed from that devastatingly handsome actor, as used in a recent interview. My historical and characterlogic inferences are my own but much of Lord M's word choice in monologue was inspired by some of that actor's reflections in the context of an entirely different character and show.

Victoria was still asleep when he tiptoed out of her apartment.

The corridor of Buckingham House containing family apartments ran parallel to that of semi-permanent guests. The King of the Belgians had his suite there, as did Princes Albert and Ernst, the Queen's half-sister and brother. The Viscount Melbourne, having been housed in a more distant location at both Windsor and Buckingham, had been relocated by the Queen's express wish to this family section within months of her ascension. Also, by the Queen's express wish her mother, the dowager Duchess of Kent, resided in a remote wing, previously unused since the reign of George III.

He had some vague notion of laying down to catch a few hours' sleep before venturing forth, but his valet was present, with a bath drawn and fresh clothing laid out. Melbourne acquiesced with good grace and after a long soak, brisk pumice scrub and careful shave, he decided any further sleep would only render him sluggish. Instead he sauntered down the hall and into the sunny chamber where breakfast would be served. At this hour, just past seven, servants bustled about, applying beeswax to the sideboards and dining table, polishing silver and glassware. He briefly contemplated venturing towards the kitchens in search of coffee-making equipment, but abandoned the thought almost instantly, for fear of the turmoil such a visit would cause.

_When I'm no longer a guest, then it will be time enough to insist on proper coffee, even if I must provide my own grinder and press._

"My husband was quite devoted to coffee also, Lord Melbourne. He insisted on having it prepared the way it was made in the colonies. One of the many things he missed after returning home."

The Duchess of Kent had been on the balcony, he surmised, and had just stepped inside.

"I take it I spoke aloud? A bad habit formed whilst living alone." Melbourne smiled warmly at the Duchess.

"Then a habit you will soon break. One is never alone at Court. At least, almost no one. I find myself alone often, but that is not a prospect you need fear."

Melbourne heard the melancholy, almost plaintive tone in her voice.

"I am grateful to find you present, Your Royal Highness. I hope you may tell me how my wedding progresses. Victoria is so well-served that she has few details to offer. I do know that we have you to thank for a dress she tells me is quite exceptional."

The Duchess laughed shortly. "I doubt that, Lord Melbourne, but will not challenge you. I contributed a few ideas only. These very modern fashions do not suit my daughter as well as the more graceful silhouettes of my youth."

"I find Her Majesty looks well in anything, but she did indeed tell me that the gown you drew out will suit her exactly."

The Duchess swept her skirts aside and gracefully folded herself onto a divan, waving her hand in invitation. Melbourne paused long enough to wave over a footman to send for coffee, then took the chair across from his future mother-in-law.

She had picked up a sketchbook and was turning the pages.

"You may not see it on the bride, of course – but here is the dress. I'm sure ladies' fashion does not interest you, but you see, the layered tiers on the bodice will conceal any…changes to my daughter's figure in the next few months and accentuate her neck and shoulders instead."

When their eyes met Melbourne saw nothing in the Duchess's pale blue eyes to alarm him. He nodded.

"Very attractive, ma'am, and... practical."

"It is very early yet to be certain of anything. I only thought to be…prepared. People are so quick to jump to conclusions."

"In some cases, accurate ones, if inconvenient," Melbourne responded.

"Whatever the case, Lord Melbourne, you and my daughter will prevail. The world loves a love story and it is plain you and she are mad for one another. And this country is especially forgiving of any irregularities. Englishmen have a very practical nature."

"Ma'am, may I pour for you? Did your late husband teach you to drink coffee?" He poured his own from the insulated carafe and filled a second china cup.

"He taught me to tolerate it. I learned to tolerate a great deal over the years."

"Well, then, I will teach you to enjoy it when I can finally have it prepared properly. This concoction is a poor imitation of good coffee."

They were laughing and talking together easily when the rest of the household began to appear. Emma Portman, as she so often did, caught Melbourne's eye and conveyed much with one arched brow. The Duchess of Bedford came in beside Baroness Lyttleton, followed by Catherine Stanhope, called Wilhelmina to distinguish her from her mother, Melbourne's old friend.

"Lord Melbourne, you are here early!" Miss Stanhope trilled gaily, favoring him with a bright smile. She was reputed to be the most beautiful girl at Court and Melbourne could see why. He greeted her in friendly fashion, assuming a deliberately avuncular air to emphasize his disinterest. She leaned over his shoulder saucily and plucked up the sketchpad the Duchess had been holding.

"Have you seen our gowns? You must not see the Queen's, you know. That is reputed to be bad luck."

She leafed quickly to the pages containing the bridesmaids' ensembles and leaned forward once more, this time to display a new series of sketches. Melbourne only glanced at them before turning his attention pointedly back to the Duchess.

"Very…white," he murmured. "I confess, I will only have eyes for the bride. Duchess, may I escort you in to breakfast?"

**

Victoria was awakened at eight by her dresser pulling back the draperies so that sunlight flooded her chamber. She yawned and stretched, holding the bedcovers over her bare breasts. She was still naked, preferring to savor the feel of William's skin against her own. It did not embarrass her that Miss Skerrett would know – one had no expectation of privacy from the servant who dressed one.

"A bath, ma'am?" Skerrett chirped, picking up discarded stockings and underthings matter-of-factly.

"Yes, please. That would be lovely," Victoria answered sleepily, pushing back her long, tangled hair.

"Yes, ma'am. You stay right there. I will ring for water and bring your cloths." Skerrett bustled out through the door to her adjacent dressing room. As soon as she was alone Victoria cautiously lowered her head, afraid to look, knowing she must, sure of what she would see.

When she'd lowered herself into the great copper tub, Victoria demanded Skerrett leave her. When the maid protested, asking who would wash her hair, Victoria snapped at her so sharply she felt instantly remorseful.

"I just wish to soak in the warm water, Skerrett. I'll call you in a few minutes to wash my hair. Please lay out my clothing in the meantime. I want – I want a dark gown today." Nodding knowingly, Skerrett sketched a brief curtsy and backed out of the dressing room.

Victoria wanted the time and privacy to collect her thoughts and examine her feelings before she must face everyone – face _him_. Embarrassed, and foolish – those were the two emotions top of mind. Victoria had known it was too early to be certain – she had said so herself, her mother had said so and even Lord M had cautioned her that they could not be sure yet. _Why, oh why did I have to tell him? Give myself airs?_ That, perhaps, was unduly harsh, but she had comported herself as she thought an expectant mother might and had secretly enjoyed the idea that she carried a child, Melbourne's child. She did not particularly like children and was actively repulsed by the infants she had seen, but _his_ child would be different, a part of him. More than anything, Victoria had wanted that tangible proof of the link between them, more concrete even than marriage alone.

Well, now there was no child and – the idea came to her, fully formed, with such impact that Victoria gasped audibly, alone in her bath. _William had wanted this baby._ He had said nothing unusually persuasive, but she knew him so well, could read him so surely, that she was certain it was true. He would be wounded by this, might even grieve for what would not be. With a rare selflessness, Victoria resolved to be sensitive to his feelings, to console him as best she could for what she had lost, what she had failed to do.

 _What if it was the baby? What if that was his primary motivation in agreeing to marry me?_ But no; as soon as the idea took shape she dismissed it. She felt the truth of his love and devotion. There would be a child, only not now, and perhaps that was as it should be. Still, she did not look forward to telling him.

**

Melbourne was mildly annoyed at the way the Queen's household, both the younger maids-of-honor and older ladies-in-waiting, ignored or openly snubbed the Duchess of Kent. It was, he knew, understandable considering the Queen's manner towards her mother, but something he intended to change.

He had some appreciation for the Duchess coming to him to show her support and encouragement, no matter how motivated by self-interest. More than that, he understood Victoria better than she understood herself and would coax her gently, lovingly, into letting go of past grudges and relaxing her childlike all-or-nothing, black-and-white view of the world around her. A learned appreciation of ambiguity and shades of gray were, he knew, essential to his precious girl's future success. The whole Flora Hastings matter could have been avoided, had he done a better job earlier of imparting that lesson and he would not let her down again.

He and Emma Portman between them kept the Duchess engaged in conversation and not for the first time Melbourne appreciated his old friend's intuitive alignment. Emma, not normally the most gregarious of women, had the Duchess laughing aloud with her crisp assessment of a few new courtiers.

He was not aware they were alone at the table until the attending footman leapt to attention. Victoria swept in, her brows furrowed in a frown. Melbourne rose at once, Emma a moment later, sweeping into a low curtsy.

"Mama, Lady Portman, you may leave us," she pronounced, without sparing a word of greeting.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," Melbourne said smoothly, offering a teasing reminder.

"Good morning, Lord M. Mama, please leave us." Lady Portman had already withdrawn. The Duchess flushed and averted her gaze, sliding in silence from the room.

"Ma'am?" Melbourne waited for her to seat herself, a footman poised to slide her chair into place.

"Oh, William, I don't want to be confined. Will you walk with me instead?" she asked – or rather, he thought, demanded, despite being phrased as a question. Agreeable, he nodded and offered his arm.

They made their way out onto the broad terrace, and from there down the steps to the west lawn. Victoria did not take his arm, instead walking beside him in silence, her eyes on the ground.

When they came to the first of the decorative ponds, where a pair of swans glided over the surface of the water, Victoria stopped.

"William…I'm not sure how to…I…am unwell today." Victoria spoke in a stiff, jerking cadence and Melbourne frowned, puzzled.

"I'm afraid I don't –" he stopped suddenly. "I see…"

Victoria's frown deepened, hiding, he thought, her embarrassment.

"Ma'am – Victoria – I am to be your husband and I already know every inch of your body. There is no need to be embarrassed in front of me."

"I began – bleeding – this morning. So, there will be no child. There never was a child, I suppose. You yourself said that it was too soon to be completely certain."

Melbourne closely examined Victoria, the sweet heart-shaped face he adored, wide serious eyes perfectly framed by a thick fringe of black lashes.

"And how do you feel about that?" he questioned, his voice soft.

Victoria lowered her eyes and sighed with frustration. "I don't know. I suppose, in a way, relieved that now we need not fear my condition would be obvious before the wedding. But…oh William, it was – it would have been a part of you, and for that I am so very sorry." Her voice broke into a little sob.

"Sweetheart," Melbourne crooned, drawing her into an embrace, careful not to hold her too tightly lest she want to withdraw.

"How do _you_ feel?" she whispered, her voice indistinct, her mouth muffled by his lapel.

He wanted to answer instantly, to say something to reassure her, to console her if she were grieving, but his voice did not come. Melbourne realized his eyes were wet, and hastily raised a hand to wipe his face before she could see.

"I am disappointed, I suppose. That is not fair to you, because it is always the woman who must pay the price in childbearing. It is an arduous business and, in our case, would have been compounded by the need for concealment. But…I would not be truthful, if I did not admit that the idea of a child, you carrying my child, pleased me greatly."

"There will be others. Oh, William, I will give you babies, you'll see. We'll make babies, a handsome little boy who looks just like you!"

"And a little girl who favors her mother?" Melbourne tipped her face up and kissed her forehead. She scrutinized him, then raised her hand to touch the corner of his eye.

"I am so sorry. Timing be damned, we will make a baby as soon as I am able," she said.

"I think sooner would be better than later," he answered. "I am not young. I suppose that is partly why I was so very happy at the thought we would have a baby together. At my age I could run out of time –"

"Stop!" Victoria pushed away and stomped her foot angrily. "You will _not_ talk that way."

"But I must, Victoria. This might be a chance handed you by fate. To reconsider – to think what it would be like, to be widowed very young or worse, to be saddled with a feeble old man for a husband."

"Stop," she repeated. "I will not listen. Unless _you_ want to reconsider?" Victoria's voice trembled.

"Never mind, my love. We will not start that again. I want you, I want to be your husband. To achieve that I will endure a public ceremony, I will tolerate living in the midst of hordes of attendants and courtiers, I will even learn to make conversation at breakfast with those silly girls who surround you."

He took her hand and tucked it into his arm and they began walking once more.

"Now that we've mourned the onset of your monthly course…can I bring up another uncomfortable subject?"

"And that is?" Victoria did not remove her hand from his arm, and for that Melbourne was glad. As long as he could touch her, he could gentle her, could convey without words the security of his presence and loving support.

"Your mother."

Victoria snorted a brief laugh. "That is an unpleasant subject indeed, Lord M. What has Mama said or done now?"

"The Duchess has not said or done anything, ma'am. She is not shown the respect she deserves from your attendants. I think it would help if you would show some indication that you wish her to have it, and that you expect them to follow your lead."

Victoria did not speak. He felt tension communicate itself through even the fingertips which lay on his sleeve. Then, "Mama deserves no more respect than she's currently given."

"That is not accurate, ma'am. How could it be? You are a splendid young woman, and for that I have her to thank."

"No!" Victoria corrected sharply. "She deserves none of the credit for who I am. Lehzen taught me, Lehzen cared for me, Lehzen –"

"And who put Lehzen in your household and ensured she remain? Who chose her as the best suited to care for you and love you?"

Victoria tightened her lips with displeasure.

"Why do you care for Mama?"

"I care about you, my love." Melbourne spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "You have a warm heart, and you are pious and devoted to the good of your subjects. You have the most admirable work ethic I have ever been privileged to see, and the quickest mind without benefit of formal education. I only speak of you as a sovereign. You _know_ how I feel about you as the woman I adore."

"But?" Victoria prompted. She tried to sound amused, but he heard the tension and some rising anger beneath.

" _And_ you are very, very young and grew up in abnormal circumstances. You were isolated from society and the ordinary give-and-take of a family."

"And whose fault was _that_? Mama kept me isolated, and my only regular companions were Conroy's daughters. They were horrible!" Her piquant features formed a grimace of distaste at the memory.

"I spoke of the sort of rough-and-tumble household in which I grew up. Mama loved us dearly and was the most delightful of parents, but she had her own life and interests so when we had a few moments of her undivided attention we considered ourselves extremely fortunate. My brothers and Em and I learned to work things out amongst ourselves, to fight and make up and amuse ourselves and…well, a wonderful and very ordinary upbringing. You were the sole focus of everyone around you, your mother, Conroy – though admittedly that was a mixed blessing – and the Baroness. You were surrounded by servants and the only people you saw were those brought in to amuse or educate you or tend to you."

"All that was Mama's fault!" Victoria snapped.

"Ma'am, you were the sole heir to the Crown, heir apparent from a very early age. Your mother made many mistakes over the years but perhaps the gravest was guarding you too closely, so that you were unable to learn to fend for yourself. Or that you could easily survive a lapse in the attentions of those around you. Most children would not thrive in such an artificial environment, where the attention of everyone was focused entirely on them."

Melbourne paused, wondering whether he had gone too far or not far enough. He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her in despite her resistance.

"Lord M, you don't _know!_ That man was awful, he was cruel, he was controlling–"

"I have no doubt. He was greedy for his own advantage and sought to mold and shape you so that he could control you when you eventually ascended the throne. He was also a thoroughly unpleasant man even in society, with few friends and no one who spoke well of him. However, he was not a monster. Kensington was rife with spies, for each faction, for your uncles. For me, when I took office. Everyone wanted to know exactly how the heir apparent progressed, how the poor little captive of Kensington fared. Had there been any violence, you may be assured you would have been whisked away from the Duchess instantly. There was no shortage of contenders for guardian of Princess Alexandrina."

"Mama once forged a letter _to you_ stating that I wished her to be Regent! You _know_ that! When I was so very ill at sixteen, Mama did not send for a physician until Lehzen forced her." Now her voice rose in outrage."

"Yes indeed, and that was wrong of her, and politically unwise to forge a letter to the Prime Minister. But surely you see, no matter if Conroy was evil incarnate, what possible motive could he, or certainly your mother, have had for wanting harm to come to you?"

"How dare you defend that man?" she demanded. Melbourne sighed and resisted the urge to look heavenward.

"I do not defend him, my love. Not a bit. I never liked him, as little as I knew him. I only want to help _you_ and I think until you can see the situation for what it was, you will never be as strong as you could be otherwise. By all accounts you were a strong-willed little girl, in fact something of a tyrant." A smile quirked his lips and Melbourne's eyes warmed at the thought of a little Victoria, as strong-willed as his own precious girl.

"Few people are all good or all bad, and none that I know of decide to be evil. Everyone is the hero of their own story. I suspect Conroy believed that he had some unique wisdom which would have benefitted the nation." Melbourne's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "And your mother…she was lonely and will always cling to any man she thinks strong enough to bear her weight. I want so much more for you than that. _Especially_ since we've already discussed my age, and you can readily calculate how much of our child's life I can reasonably expect to be alive for."

Victoria's shoulders jerked sharply, and he felt a shudder run through her.

"I am not trying to scare you, my darling. I intend to be with you for a very long time, but if Providence decrees otherwise then whatever you do, I would like to think it was done from want and not need. You are my _Gloriana_ and will need no one."

"I need you, William," Victoria said sullenly. Her lower lip protruded so adorably Melbourne could not resist kissing her pout away.

"You want me, and for that I am very grateful. You do not, or will not, _need_ me. You will be strong, for yourself and for our child, in a way your mother was not. And for me, you will try to look at your childhood from a different perspective. Your mother made mistakes, I made mistakes with my own son, my mother made mistakes with me, and Lord knows Peniston Lamb was no joy to be around on many occasions. We grow and thrive, or not, and must release our parents from whatever debt we imagine they owe us. We are never completely free of the past until we learn to know them as people, and not only parents."

Melbourne laughed suddenly, a free, joyous sound which made Victoria beam despite her confusion of feelings.

"Am I done preaching? I quite abhor those who lecture others. I have always preferred a more Socratic approach." He dropped suddenly to one knee and took up the hem of her gown in pantomime of humbled contrition, so that Victoria laughed. She clasped his head in both hands and her fingers raked through the thick, still-dark curls shot through with silver streaks.

"Oh, get up, do, before someone sees us!" Victoria exclaimed, still giggling.

"Will you forgive my bombastic excess, Your Majesty? I cannot rise until I know I am forgiven." He made a great show of kissing her hem. "Or must I kiss your slippers as well?"

"Oh, get up! Yes, I forgive you. Or rather – I am quite annoyed with you but there's nothing to _forgive_. I will…I will think about everything you said, as I think about _everything_ you say. And…"

Melbourne rose nimbly and took her hand in his.

"…and I know I am too harsh with Mama. Often, I do not even intend to be, but she flutters around so and seems so afraid of me that it only makes me angrier. I don't want to be _feared_ by my mother."

He cupped her face in both hands and held it, and his eyes were so brimful of love Victoria relented completely.

"My little love. _Gloriana!_ " Melbourne whispered reverently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Victoria was reared under the hated "Kensington System", to ensure the young Princess remain "untainted" by outside influences. All existing source material document certain important facts:  
> 1\. The princess/heir apparent was surrounded by spies placed at Kensington by the Kings, her uncle Leopold and various factions/politicians. Her official governess (a ceremonial role) was the Duchess of Northumberland. Louise Lehzen, originally a commoner, was made Baroness to reward her loyalty to the throne on behalf of the princess. Additional household members were Baroness Spath, a dear friend of Louise Lehzen, and frequently, for long stays, Victoria's much-older half-sister.  
> 2\. All of these people shared an intense dislike of John Conroy. Had he done anything overtly cruel or violent any one or all of them would have been overjoyed to have an excuse for his immediate removal, and both Kings George and later William would have jumped on the excuse to remove Victoria from her mother's care.  
> 3\. Victoria wrote prolifically and never described any violence or actual cruelty. Since she complained about his overbearing, difficult personality and the very many rules and restrictions of his she abhored, she was not afraid to criticize  
> 4\. Sometimes an ambitious, controlling asshole is just an ambitious controlling asshole. 
> 
> "Victoria became second-in-line to the British throne in 1827; to prevent Victoria from being surrounded by commoners, King George IV made Lehzen a Baroness of the Kingdom of Hanover later that year. Lehzen encouraged the princess to become strong, informed, and independent from the Duchess and Conroy's influence, causing friction between the two and Lehzen. Attempts to remove the governess, who had the support of Victoria's uncles George IV, William IV, and Leopold I of Belgium, were unsuccessful...During her tenure, Lehzen had the support of George IV, William IV, and another of Victoria's uncles, Leopold I of Belgium, who all believed that she was vital to the princess' health, happiness, and continued resistance to Conroy's influence.[2][31]" 
> 
> Author's Note: "Influence", not "violence" or even "cruelty."


	25. Chapter 25

The morning of his wedding day dawned clear and cold, with a sky so very blue it begged to be captured by an artist's palette.

In a nod to decorum, Lord Melbourne had not spent the previous night under the same roof as his bride-to-be. Rather than return to his bachelor quarters, the lodging he leased at 39 South Street, Melbourne had slept at his sister's London townhome. Henry Temple, Viscount Palmerston, Emily's husband and a perpetual thorn in his brother-in-law's side, had hosted the Lamb brothers at a dinner at Brooks before making the rounds of every notable gentleman's club in the city to accommodate all who wished to drink the health and happiness of William Lamb.

Emily's commodious, elegantly appointed Piccadilly home was full to overflowing, with Frederick back from Vienna to stand at his brother's side and all her grown children packed into whatever spaces they could find with children, servants and those in-laws fortunate enough to be brought along for the occasion.

Melbourne had not laid his head down until past three, and had, for the first time in decades, successfully drank himself past the point of inebriation into sobriety once more. He felt exceptionally fine, standing in the brisk air wearing no more than tight white cashmere breeches, his hair still damp from the bath, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his bare shoulders.

His mind meandered back over the years to that first wedding, feeling a mellow, almost fond acceptance of all that had transpired that day and later. When his wife had died he had grieved for her, great sobs tearing through him for the three days he isolated himself after, and then he'd allowed her tormented spirit to depart, satisfied that she was free of all unhappiness and restored to the fey sprite who had first enchanted him riding bareback in her brother's buckskin breeches.

He could not bring himself to regret anything of the past. He had been enriched by affection and tempered by the periodic bouts of melancholy which plagued him, the black dog of depression, and yet had never completely lost touch with all the beauty life had to offer. Above all, each hurt he'd borne, each love he'd celebrated, each pang of pleasure and pain, had made him into the man who had won the heart of a Queen and each milestone had led him inexorably to this moment in time.

Melbourne's thoughts led him back to _her_ , to his precious girl, and the gift of love she'd given him. As many improbable contingencies had brought him into her life on the first day she awakened as Queen, he could not imagine it any other way. Something in their souls had recognized each other at that very first instant, and some power beyond understanding, some sentient Being, architect of time and space, had brought them together again. _Again_. Plato had toyed with the notion, other great writers including some early Church fathers had hinted at it. Some truths, once entertained, seem inarguable. So, yes, without understanding or rational explanation… _again_.

"Uncle, Grandmama asks if you are coming down to breakfast or whether you wish something sent to your room." His eldest great-nephew stood in the doorway, a sturdy six-year-old with chest puffed out from self-importance.

"Good morning, Francis. Ask Grandmama to have coffee sent up to me, please. And thank you. You look very fine. Are you all set for your big day?" Victoria had insisted on including as many of his family members in her wedding party as could plausibly fill a role. Francis Cowper would serve as train-bearer beside Leopold's namesake son, the five-year-old Duke of Brabant.  

The little boy nodded smartly and ran off down the stairway, shouting his message. Melbourne turned to the mirror to re-examine his jawline for any errant whiskers. He shaved himself, preferring to allow his valet to stand by idly and watch. That good gentleman now stood in the bright morning sun, scrutinizing the Court uniform for any imperfection.

Victoria had offered Melbourne the Order of the Garter, which he again refused, as he had so often before - " _The Garter serves as incentive to men who can be offered nothing else. What good would it do me? I can't bribe myself."_ – and the Dukedom which only Wellington's direct intercession had convinced him to accept. Melbourne would accept no extant title, with the entail and income. Those were by custom held for members of the Royal family, and while her father's brothers were established to their own satisfaction they would not relish a commoner leaping into their ranks. A created Dukedom, such as Wellington himself had been awarded, elevated the holder in near-honorary capacity only. It was neither hereditary nor did it come with any property or income and Melbourne's own family seat and the income produced by his various investments and holdings would suffice.

The title was one more in a series of mostly pecuniary matters which he had delegated Fred to negotiate on his behalf with the Duke of Wellington representing the State. Lord Melbourne's ready response to every proposal for marriage settlements had been "I want nothing," but that answer satisfied no one. Those who were liable to protest any excessive settlement would be equally suspicious of such a stance. Once again Wellington broke the impasse, by observing that no man trusts one who wants nothing. It would deprive the Members of the House of a means to control him, and that would only increase their opposition. Leopold had been granted a lifetime income of £50,000 a year – a sum he continued to draw, thirty years after his wife's passing. His very early outreach on behalf of his nephew had suggested the more modest bridegroom's allowance of £30,000 and Wellington proposed they match that. Fred, on Melbourne's emphatic direction, declined and countered with £10,000. The matter was settled at £20,000, subject to re-calibration when children arrived.

Melbourne considered such matters unseemly. He had participated with equanimity on behalf of the State in previous Crown marriages and understood that in every family of any consequence, marriage was far more than an affair between two people. Yet when it came to his relationship with Victoria, he would have far preferred a more informal arrangement, only to spare them both the public meddling. He cringed inwardly when he tried to reconcile what passed between them, both physically and emotionally, with these details being debated by those same politicians with whom he had wrangled over appropriations and the language of bills brought to the floor.

"Sir, your shirt?" Baines held a white shirt aloft, the fabric so fine it appeared nearly translucent in the bright sunlight. Melbourne knew he need not concern himself with its preparation – his valet trusted no one else to apply an iron to his shirts, and he knew the garment would slide over his skin as though made of the finest silk. He looked forward, instead, to its removal later. One of the most delectable images he savored was Victoria, naked save for one of his discarded shirts, straddling him while he lay back at his ease. For that reason alone, he required his valet to maintain an ample supply of the finest linen.

**

_When Melbourne had decided on a whim – no, more than a whim, a sudden unaccustomed sentimentality – to forgo intimacy until their wedding night, Victoria had been first taken aback and then horrified._

_"But why? We are to be wed! Why can we not continue as we have been?" she'd demanded of him._

_"Because, sweetheart, I want to observe some of the old formalities I once thought only for show. Because I want to carry you in my arms into my home on our wedding night and have everything perfect, and right, and new for you."_

_Victoria had pouted, that first day – her delayed monthly course had just come, and she refused to contemplate allowing him to interfere with her when she was unclean. He had offered futile reassurances that he adored all of her, to no avail, until, looking at his perfect, adorable, adoring vixen, he resigned himself to sleeping alone. The wedding was only eight weeks off then – had there been a child on its way as they originally thought, she would have been entering her fourth month and in so petite a body, her waist just beginning to thicken – and it seemed a tolerable burden to bear, for the reward at the end._

_He had not counted on Victoria's determination. She had come to his chamber that evening, wearing a decidedly spinsterish flannel gown buttoned to the neck, and he reflected it had to have been borrowed from Baroness Lehzen, since he was certain Victoria owned nothing as hideous. Still he had smiled and held out his arms in welcome, before gently chiding her._

_"Chaste, my dear, I wish us to remain chaste, so you can feel like a true bride on your wedding night. Anticipation can be its own reward."_

_"Then may I kiss you good night?" Victoria had asked, turning her face up and shaping her lips to welcome his. He complied, and while she still held his hand in hers, saw her lower herself before him._

_"May I kiss you good night?" she repeated, reaching for the placket at the front of his trousers. Before his conscious mind inferred her intent, Melbourne had felt his scrotum and stomach contract and his arousal surge forward to meet her questing hands. She isn't…she wouldn't…surely not… the thoughts came and went partially formed, as he watched her intently focus on the object of her exploration. Then she laid her lips carefully on it, kissing…then he felt, before he saw, the rougher texture of her tongue dart out and tentatively flick at him._

_"What…what are you doing?" he'd croaked out, or similarly nonsensical words – he could not precisely remember what he'd said, or whether he'd spoken at all. He stood motionless, rigid with shock and the inexpressibly powerful jolt of pure arousal that tore through him. He would not, could not, encourage, could not guide or lead or even suggest…he could only wait and watch with wonder bordering on awe as a beautiful girl knelt before him and with an air of reverence proceed to do such things to him as he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined her capable, or willing. When he knew only moments remained he had gently pulled himself back, or tried, but she had one hand cupped firmly around his buttocks and her lips and tongue worked their magic, and the silky interior of her cheeks compressed and released, compressed and released, drawing every last drop of his essence from him. When he'd come to his senses he'd opened his eyes once more, shame and horror writ plain on his face. Victoria's proud grin of delight faded when she saw his expression._

_"Did I – did you not like that? Ought I not to have --?" and her voice shook, her lip began to tremble._

_"Oh sweetheart! My love! I liked it…very much." He fumbled to tuck himself away and hurriedly drew her to her feet. Brushing the loose strands of her hair back from her face, he looked into her eyes._

_"Why? Why did you do that? You don't need to…to serve me, to pleasure me. I adore you, my precious girl. I am…honored, if you did that for love, or for your own pleasure, but not if you think you needed to –"_

_She laid a finger on his lips to shush him. "I want to. I love you, all of you. And if that's mine, to do as I wish, then that is what I wish. Did you like it?" Victoria looked hopefully up at him._

_"I liked it extremely, you silly girl. Do you imagine I did not?" Melbourne chuckled and held her against him, folding his arms around her back. "And I am yours, all of me, to do as you will. That was…." and he knew any words he would find would be worse than inadequate. "…incredible."_

_"Good! Then will you hold me? Read to me from the papers, or just talk…and then I will go away and sleep alone. But if I am to endure the wait, until we are married, then…I reserve the right to visit you and do what I wish. I absolutely adore seeing you lose control. It makes me feel more powerful than standing before the Parliament in all my regalia." Victoria grinned and climbed onto his four-poster bed. She'd spoken playfully, in jest, but he reflected that there had been some truth in what she'd said. Well, he thought, if that is what pleases my wife, I will be a fortunate husband indeed._

**

"Brother, you are still the handsomest man in the country." Melbourne turned from the pier-glass, where he'd been struggling with his neckcloth, relying on memory to recreate one of Brummel's most deceptively simple knots.

"I think you see me through prejudiced eyes, Em." Emily was still a pretty woman at fifty-five, plumper than the girl she had once been but with a complexion still fresh and bright, smiling blue eyes. Her gentle manner hid a shrewd mind and astute political sensibility. She had married for love, after a decades' long affair with Viscount Palmerston that had outlasted the tedium of her unhappy marriage to the 5th Earl Cowper. Melbourne didn't begrudge her happiness, although his beautiful, brilliant sister's attachment to a man he viewed as boorish at best made little sense to her fond brothers.

"Look at us, William. Still handsome people in our middle years, two of us in love – we must find Fred his match! – and you about to marry the Queen of England! Mama would be so proud. You were always her favorite, you know."

"Perhaps, although she had inordinate fondness for your Henry too, if you recall. Told you on her deathbed to remain faithful to your lover."

"And the poet. Mother never lost her partiality for him," Emily said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Mother had eclectic tastes."

"Ah, yes. The poet. So insensitive of you to remind me of him now," Melbourne chided, but he was teasing, and she knew it.

"I don't think any reminder of that hack could mar your happiness today, brother." She stepped back to survey him from head to toe, a critical examination that seemingly frustrated her. "I can find nothing to improve upon. You are indeed a devastatingly handsome man. Your little Vicky is a lucky girl."

"I have all the luck, Em." She heard his voice grow soft, his tone velvety despite the catch in his voice that became more apparent when he was moved to strong emotion.

"You love her." Emily's tone held a note of something like wonder. "After all you've been through with women, who would have imagined a chit of eighteen, never brought out, knows nothing of the world and society, none of the more outré practices you shared with such as Lady Stanhope – oh, you didn't think I'd heard? Darling brother, I thought after your letters to your Irish mistress were made public everyone knew – "

"Em, you are being quite crude in your references. There are things a gentleman does not discuss with his sister."

"But will you discuss them with your _wife_?" Emily arched a brow and smiled coyly as she nimbly darted out of range of the shaving water her brother threatened to toss on her.

"I'll toss you out on your ear. Off the balcony so you land in the holly bushes."

Emily laughed and came forward once more, this time with the clear intention of embracing her brother. Melbourne dodged the threatened embrace.

"My shirt, Em. Do you know how hard Baines works to get this perfection? Now leave me or sit quietly so I can tie this blasted cravat."

Emily sat as directed, smoothing her skirts with a refined air that belied the naughty grin still in place.

"How do things stand with your new uncles-in-law? The King of the Belgians deigns to attend your wedding? I suppose he was not to be outdone by the Queen's paternal uncles."

"I've known the English contingent for years. Sussex is unobjectionable, and Cumberland sees no profit in making me his enemy. Leopold…I think, I hope, we now have an understanding in place."

"Really? An understanding? Do tell, how did that come about?" Emily leaned back comfortably and crossed her arms, determined to hear the story. Melbourne, gratified by the final effect he'd achieved with the narrow white silk cravat, sat to pull on his white silk stockings and began to tell her what had transpired.

**

_Stockmar, as Melbourne had predicted, resumed his greasily complacent manner at their next encounter. He had, so far as Melbourne knew, made no further attempt to do what he did best, pot-stirring with a long-handled spoon, but neither had he reconciled himself to failure, of that Melbourne was certain._

_He'd informed Melbourne with unctuous care, that the King of the Belgians directed him to extend felicitations on the impending nuptials. Moreover, he would arrive in London a week before the wedding, with his Queen and four children in tow. Even the unfortunately named Princess Charlotte, born only the past June, would be present for the wedding of their cousin the Queen. Victoria had confided to Melbourne her dismay on behalf of Queen Louise, of whom she was fond, that Leopold insisted on naming their daughter after his first wife. Melbourne thought he understood her sympathy and briefly entertained the notion of assuring her he would not name a daughter Caroline, before deciding she might not appreciate the humor._

_Leopold was every bit as unpleasant, as pompous and overbearing and puffed out with inflated self-importance, as Melbourne remembered. The man was so distinctly not what he thought himself to be that Melbourne might have been content to appreciate the humor, except that constant slights and poorly concealed insults distressed Victoria, who rose to her beloved's defense with increasing fervor. As little as he himself liked confrontation, Melbourne decided that he could not stand by and allow Victoria to defend him._

_Their conversation had not gone well, but then Melbourne had not entertained any hope it would. Leopold's superciliousness and the overweening vanity with which he insulated himself made any hope of two-way conversation futile._

_"I'm marrying Victoria and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. Your constant sniping only makes her unhappy. Is that your goal?"_

_Whatever sneering response the man made, it was without logic or merit, so Melbourne talked over him._

_"I expected little, but I foolishly imagined you were wiser than you appear. Certainly, your man Stockmar has at least perfected the ability to maintain a veneer of civility. He no longer has the advantage of plausible deniability, but you do, or did."_

_That had made Leopold hesitate, and look at Melbourne with something like curiosity._

_"If you continue as you are, you will only alienate Victoria completely. I don't suppose you will change how you feel any time soon -"_

_"Never!" Leopold snapped. Melbourne only smiled urbanely and lifted his chin in minimal acknowledgement._

_"- but if you don't change how you behave, you will drive an insurmountable wedge between yourself and your niece and then your influence will be nil. If that is your goal, you will accomplish my goal for me."_

_"You would like that? To have Alexandrina to yourself, isolated from her family, and at the mercy of your ambition?"_

_Melbourne huffed a very soft laugh. "You confuse my goals with your own, Your Majesty. I only want Victoria's happiness, and she has determined that happiness will be found in marriage to me. I intend to devote myself to ensuring it, every day of my life."_

_"And how long will that life be, at your age? You are eleven years older than me." Melbourne knew the other man thought he would be thrown off balance by the brutality of that calculation. He was wrong; no one could argue more harshly against the wisdom of marriage to such a young woman than Melbourne himself on those many long nights he'd brooded until dawn, expending every effort to resist the growing attraction between them._

_"All the more reason why I would think you might want to maintain a strong relationship with your niece. If you continue as you have, that will not happen. Victoria is a very strong-willed woman. When she takes someone into dislike she does not readily relent or forgive. You see how she bided her time, resisting Conroy since she was a mere child, until she was able to punish him for his transgressions. Her own mother – well, I hope to mend that relationship in time, but for now at least you know how things have been between them. Do you doubt for a moment that she would turn on you likewise and cut you out of her life entirely? If you do, you are a fool, and a blind one, who does not learn from the lessons of the past."_

_Melbourne stepped back, bowed gracefully and left the King of the Belgians standing alone._

**

"How do I look, Emily?"

The Court uniform was so heavy, dark blue wool embellished with gold epaulets and frogged closures, gold thread embellishing the front and back, that in a warmer season it would have been nearly unendurable costume to wear in procession through the streets and then for the hours'-long ceremony. But Victoria adored it on him, saying he wore it better than any other man at Court, and in lieu of the ceremonial military uniform it was suggested he wear, Melbourne had agreed to wear the coat with its paramilitary design. Thus, he'd chosen a summer-weight shirt of the finest lawn and the creamy cashmere pantaloons which fit so tightly no undergarment was possible. Brummel, he thought, would approve of that at least, no matter how passionately he would have disdained the ornate coat.

"Fit for a Queen, William." Melbourne saw the unmistakable pride shining in her face and was satisfied that Victoria would be likewise pleased.

"Then, shall we go? My bride awaits, and I long for this day to be over."


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add images. Loaner laptop was being obstructionist the night of original post. No other changes - 08.08.18

Her Majesty Victoria, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith, slept little, waking just past three and unable to fall back asleep. She’d padded barefoot to the window seat and drew her knees up to her chest, looking out over the lawns of Windsor Castle and, far in the distance, the rooftops of her capital city.

Somewhere out there, she thought, _he_ is, and this is the last night we will spend apart. After this we will have the right to go into a room and close the door with neither scandalized whispers nor complicit smiles. After this we will have coffee brought to us in bed and all the world can know that I wake up in the arms of William Lamb.

That last, she knew, wasn’t entirely accurate. Gentlefolk did not customarily share a bedchamber, and the royal family most emphatically did not. An entire suite of rooms at Windsor, near to hers in the private wing but separated by stout walls and only one interconnecting door, had been prepared for Lord Melbourne. The much smaller apartment he’d previously occupied farther distant suited him much better, she thought, than the ornate and quite gargantuan space formerly occupied by princes of the blood. She had ordered some very basic changes and looked forward to ensuring it reflected Lord M’s taste. What that was, she was not certain, but suspected it did not involve cherubs painted on 20’ coffered ceilings, an excess of gilt and red velvet. Perhaps, she thought, he could devise his own _salon_ of sorts, an apartment where he could invite his friends and escape the pomp and protocol which would otherwise surround him.

It gave Victoria such a very _cozy_ feeling, thinking that the divine Lord M would be her _husband,_ by the laws of Church and State. They would make a home together in the midst of this ancient palace and he would help her exert herself to change some of the very many silly rituals which constrained her as much as it did those around her. For instance…must she _always_ be surrounded by a bevy of girls selected for their birth, beauty and family connections? What _purpose_ did it serve, when there were no guests to be entertained, no foreign dignitaries to host, no formal receptions underway? Surely on some nights one could dispense with their company in favor of one’s husband and pretend to be ordinary gentlefolk?

Her thoughts ran riot, trying to picture just what _ordinary gentlefolk_ did, in an ordinary country home like Lord M’s Brocket Hall. Read together perhaps? Talk? Walk about the grounds without always looking over their shoulder to gauge how much privacy they had? It would be simpler behind that final closed door, in her – their – bedchamber. At the end of the evening, when the corridors were empty, then they could begin discovering another aspect of their friendship. For four wonderful years they had shared long meandering conversations about every topic under the sun, frequently moving from one subject to another without rhyme or reason. Victoria liked nothing more than to listen to Lord M’s wry, witty observations, hear him recall anecdotes which more clearly described the essence of a person or situation than the most long-winded twaddle from boring, prosy others. His humor was delightfully unorthodox, and could be shocking without ever verging into crudeness or cruelty. Victoria remembered Conroy’s sarcasm, disguised as wit but always with such an edge that it stung, and her mother’s helpless simpering laughter, as though in hope of softening his sharp tongue. Of course, Conroy’s sarcasm was most often directed at her, or at one of her relations, or dear Lehzen. He had mocked Uncle William cruelly, pantomiming the King’s excesses, his loud booming voice and the walk of a sailor on a rocking deck. Sometimes even Victoria was startled into laughing, but always she felt ashamed and angry at herself later. Lord M’s wit was based on keen observation and astute understanding of human nature, but it was never unkind, always tempered by his gentle tolerance for the foibles of others.

Would they undress together or separately? Victoria realized she had seen him wonderfully, gloriously naked just for her, but had never actually watched him dress or undress – they were always otherwise occupied at the moment clothing was shed. He had explored every inch of her body, even loosening her stays himself on a few memorable occasions. He had taught her how her own body responded and his own reduced him to a state of near-helplessness when she applied lips, tongue – once even alternating mouthfuls of icy bubbling champagne and warm sweet tea, causing him to thrash about with unbearably intense sensation – but he had not witnessed the mundane details of her toilette. She knew that there would be awkward moments, learning to live with another person in the closest proximity, but all that would come, with the kindest, most patient of teachers.

The sky was just pinking in the distance. Soon Lehzen would come to greet her – at least, she hoped Lehzen would come. Of late, the Baroness had been waiting for her in the breakfast room, out of tact and reticence, and would no doubt never after today venture into her mistress’s bedchamber in the morning. But just for today, Victoria looked forward to those moments with her old governess, being fussed over and feeling once more like a well-loved child.

As though reading her mind – or, more likely, Victoria knew, aware that Lord M had spent the night elsewhere – Baroness Lehzen tapped lightly on her door at a quarter past seven. Once she would not have knocked but that formality was for the best, for all their sakes. The détente between governess and Prime Minister – soon to be bridegroom – would be perilously destabilized by an encounter with Lord M in all his manly glory. The idea made Victoria giggle softly.

“You are in a good mood, Majesty,” Lehzen observed, her own stern features softening. She pulled the draperies fully open, then turned and sat on the cushioned seat beside the Queen.

“You look so happy, Liebchen.” The older woman’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, and she softly stroked Victoria’s cheek.

“I am happy, Lehzen.” Victoria’s tone was equally hushed, and it accentuated the familiarity between them. She leaned her head against Lehzen’s bosom and felt the woman’s arm go about her shoulders. “I am marrying Lord M today.”

Victoria almost held her breath in anticipation. She wanted Lehzen to be truly happy for her, to _understand_ , and feared the immediate gulf which would yawn open between them if she did not.

“You love him very much, your Lord M.” Victoria strained to hear some sign of the speaker’s emotion in her statement of fact. It was not a question, but she answered nonetheless.

“I do, Lehzen. Very, very much. I want you to like him too. I know you don’t…I want you to be happy for me, and to love him for my sake.”

“All I care about is that you are happy, ma’am,” the Baroness said carefully. “That is all I have ever wanted.” The silence hung between them heavily. Then, “I think Lord Melbourne is a good man, and I think he loves you very much.”

Victoria relaxed once more, under the soft cool hand stroking her hair, and listened to Lehzen’s heart beating under her ear.

“Will you – will you send me away after you are married? Your husband might no longer want me here, and it is right that you do as he wishes.”

Victoria sat up, startled. “Lehzen! Lord M will not want me to send you away. Whether you like him or not, he respects you greatly, and appreciates all you have done for me. In the Kensington days especially, when you were all I had.” Her eyes were wide with shocked outrage at the very idea of Lord M, her loving, gentle Lord M, behaving so harshly towards Lehzen. It would never happen. They would all see, what a good, what a _great_ man he was.

“And…we will have children. Who else to be in charge of our nursery? I would have no one else, and Lord M would not consider trusting anyone else with our children.” He had not said so, it was not something they had discussed, but Victoria knew with certainty that these two people she loved most in the world would come to love each other. _And Mama,_ a small voice in her mind added.

“And Mama,” she repeated aloud, without knowing she intended to speak the thought. “Is Mama awake? I would like her to join me as I get ready for my wedding. You and Mama both, and Lady Sutherland and Lady Portman. No one else. The maids-of-honor will be dressing in their own finery. Now, Lehzen, before you summon Miss Skerrett to ready my bath, let me kiss you and receive your blessing.”

**

Her dressing room in disarray, Victoria tied the sash of her new silk dressing gown and nodded for Skerrett to open the door. She would not bathe in company although many of her predecessors had made the royal bath a Court occasion, much as kings shaved and even used the privy stool in company of their gentlemen of the chamber in centuries past.

“Ma’am!” Harriet Sutherland, a tall willowy beauty generally considered the most well-dressed woman in England, exclaimed. “I did not recognize you!”

Victoria laughed uncertainly, glancing down at the simple silk dressing gown in a shade of deep coral. Her hair was piled loosely on her head, having been washed and brushed dry and pinned up haphazardly to get it out of the way.

“You tease me, Harriet,” she muttered, turning away.

“I do not! Emma, tell her. Ma’am, that color suits you perfectly, and the simplicity of style. Very lovely! It is new?”

“A bridal gift, part of a _trousseau_.”

“Whoever chose it, chose perfectly. A close friend? Your sister perhaps?” Harriet pressed inquisitively. She found the opened box on Victoria’s low dressing table and plucked up the card. Eyebrows lifting, she showed it to Lady Portman.

“A friend of William’s,” Emma said. “Do you know her, ma’am?”

“No. She is coming to the wedding with her – with a young companion.” Victoria inclined her head, waiting expectantly for the quizzing she suspected would follow.

“If anyone knows William’s tastes, it is Lady Brandon,” Emma said tartly. When Harriet laughed she received a warning glance that did not escape Victoria’s notice.

“Skerrett, you may take the wet towels down,” she said smoothly. When the maid had gone Victoria crossed her arms and leaned her back against the door.

“Emma, Harriet, please understand that I know everything about Lady Brandon and William. He has told me everything about his past, and part of that is – was – his affair with Lady Brandon. I know that there was a lawsuit which was settled out of court to hush the matter up and preserve the dignity of all concerned, and letters entered into evidence with the intent to discredit and humiliate him. I know _everything._ So please, do not think to snicker and consider me naïve.”

The Duchess of Sutherland looked suitably abashed, lowering her eyes. Lady Portman surprised them both by asking the Duchess to leave them.

“Ma’am,” Lady Portman said, when she and the Queen faced each other in the dressing room. “Harriet is the best friend of that Norton woman, who has no reason to think well of a woman who was her rival for William’s aff- attention, at that time. This was all when you were in the schoolroom, of course. But I’m sure Harriet knows of the letters which were entered into evidence, and those others which were not. I will caution her most firmly to mind her tongue at Court but you must be prepared to show complete indifference if whispers come to your attention. There are those who will do what they can to upset your happiness, and his of course. Not all or even most, but some.”

“Thank you, Emma. For your loyalty to William, and for your advice, which I most certainly will take.” Victoria laid her hand on the doorknob.

“One moment more, Your Majesty. You said William has told you everything?” Lady Portman’s eyes were narrowed and her features seemed taut with sudden strain, Victoria thought.

“Yes, Emma. I’m sure there are some women, some _liaisons_ , which escaped his recollection, but I have the general idea.”

“Good. He would be a fool to hope he could shield you completely. After today he will be the talk of the country – the world, I daresay – and all his old skeletons will come rattling out of their closets. Has he told you about the contents of those letters?”

“Contents? Not precisely but I can imagine what love letters contain. I have no wish to read the words he wrote to another woman, at a time when I was – what? Ten? Twelve?”

“Nine, I believe, ma’am. And you are right, they are none of your concern. William loves _you_ , more than I have ever seen him in love with any other. Even Caro, in case you wondered. He loved her, but he was young, and full of himself, and too busy living to devote his whole heart to any female then. Now…he knows the value of love. Don’t let anyone taint that. The practices he wrote of, those exotic acts he engaged in, those are the acts of a man who is essentially bored and in need of stimulation. Not something you need worry about. I daresay it’s a wonder the poor man can walk.”

Victoria’s mouth gaped, and then she began to laugh helplessly, doubling over with great whoops of glee.

“Emma! I do not think anyone ever said such things to me before!” She gasped, breathless and still laughing. Then she stood once more.

“What exotic acts, Emma? Will you tell me?” She tilted her head and opened her eyes wide in winsome appeal, and Lady Portman thought for the first time that her old friend’s young love could lead him on a merry dance, if she were so inclined.

“Ask your husband, ma’am. Now – shall we permit poor Harriet to return from exile?”

**

At just noon they set out, and the roads were lined with people on all sides, cheering and waving madly. Victoria rode with her mother and Lady Portman in the gold State carriage from Windsor to St. James Palace. The Duchess of Kent and Lady Portman exchanged worried glances several times, at the Queen’s rigid white face and over bright eyes.

Victoria was horrified and aghast at the spectacle of more people than she had ever seen assembled at one time. Far more than even the crowds at her Coronation, and then she had had Lord M by her side. Dear, kind Lord M, she’d felt so safe with him and he had done everything to ensure she was tranquil and prepared for what lay ahead.

Now, all her thoughts were for him and the concern she felt threatened to bubble over into panic. _This was a mistake, a dreadful dreadful mistake! Why did I allow them to persuade me? My marriage is not entertainment for the masses! The people, horrid, dirty, unwashed people, mouths open wide to show blackened rotting teeth shouting waving cudgels and demanding blood!_

Victoria knew she was conflating in her mind all she had heard of the poor French Queen, and the Terror which had taken place a few short years before her birth. Lord M had been a young man then, his Grand Tour interrupted by the insanity sweeping France, and his fears for her during the Chartist uprising had stemmed from his own horror of the violence which could overtake a mob.

All the ugly pamphlets which had ever been printed, attacking the Prime Minister, flashed past her mind’s eye, crude vulgar things. It mattered little that the _people_ thought they loved _her_. What mattered was the disrespect they had already shown to Lord M, and the swiftness with which this many people could be swept up into a maddened mob. What could her guards do, what could anyone do, if the tens, hundreds of thousands of people turned on them – on him?

Victoria was unaware of her own breath coming in short shallow bursts, of the haziness clouding her mind, and only knew she had slumped over in a faint when her eyes opened to her mother’s concerned face leaning over her and Lady Portman passing smelling salts under her nose. She struggled to raise herself, and knew from the expressions mirrored on their concerned faces that her fear was plain.

“Drina, what is it? What is the matter? Do you have regrets? Talk to me, Drina, tell me.” The Duchess of Kent, at the best of times easily roused to attacks of nervous anxiety, was as pale as her daughter under the thick coating of scented French powder and rouge. Her plump cheeks were white around the dots of pinkish-orange color painted on.

“Yes I have regrets! Look at them! The people, all the people – _look_ , damn you! We are surrounded by a mob, and still miles from the Chapel.” Victoria’s voice rose to a frantic keening.

“The people are cheering you, ma’am. Look, at the bouquets. They have brought children, and the women have new bonnets. If they meant you harm, they would not have dressed in their Sunday finery.”

“Damn it, Emma, I don’t care for _my_ safety. William! They hate him, say such horrible things…you don’t know…we tease about ‘Mrs. Melbourne’ but for _them_ it was meant as a vile insult. They accuse him of…of defiling me.”

“Nonsense, ma’am,” Emma Portman said. If her own features were somewhat guarded, it was not immediately apparent. “William was a popular enough Prime Minister, and his late decision to yield to the demands of the Army – not _yield_ , but defy his own Party to give them what they need to keep the men safe – made him more popular on resigning than he ever was at the height of his power.”

“You don’t _know_ that, Emma. There are those who would stir the mob to violence for their own reasons. Anarchists and revolutionaries and…”

“Stop it, ma’am. Stop now. You are right, we are surrounded. There is nothing we can do until we reach St. James Palace, and when we do everything will be fine. If it is not, William will deal with it. Wellington is there, and all the senior ministers, and the royal princes. Even Cumberland – even the King of the Belgians – wouldn’t be so foolhardy to stir up trouble in a hundred thousand people with no means to control the outcome. Their wives, their children are present. Now, swallow this.”

Lady Portman took a flash from her reticule and unscrewed the cap. Victoria accepted the bottle and upended it without hesitation, only belatedly feeling the burn of the brandy coursing down.

She heaved a great sigh and composed her features into a still, remote mask.

“Thank you, Emma. I will still – I will always regret – that we did not marry privately, at Windsor or even Brocket Hall. Even if there is no violence, William will hate this – the attention, the spectacle, all eyes on him – and I am so sorry I did not stand firm and follow my own inclination.”

Those were the last words the Queen spoke, for the duration of their slow, jerking progress. The gold carriage was so poorly sprung, and the poor horses so overburdened by their load, that the journey was interminable.

When they finally entered the portico of the old Palace Lady Portman wordlessly passed the flash to Victoria once more and, when she had drank, squeezed her hand reassuringly. Victoria, with unwonted gentleness, repeated the gesture with her mother, taking her lace-gloved hand.

“Mama, thank you for riding with me today. I am glad you are here.” The Duchess opened her eyes wide in an expression of near-alarm, as though suspecting a trick. Then she clasped her daughter’s shoulders and pressed thin lips to Victoria’s cheek. 

"It will be fine, Drina, you'll see. And then you will be married to your Lord M and live happily."

Rows of Coldstream Guards stood at attention, their numbers quadrupled by late order of a newly arrived Colonel, who, if the Queen had known, nearly shared her dismay at the sheer numbers assembled in the streets as far as the eye could see. An equerry pulled down the step and opened the door to the carriage, and the Queen stepped out.

**

Victoria was taken directly into the dressing-room where her train-bearers were, dressed all in white with white roses, which had a beautiful effect. She was told when Lord M’s procession moved past into the chapel, and wanted nothing more than to intercept him, take his hand and beg him to run away with her. Instead she waited compliantly until they steered her into the Throne room, where the Procession formed; Lord Wellington in what would have been Melbourne’s place, bearing the Sword of State, and Lord Uxbridge and Lord Belfast on either side of him immediately before her. Queen Anne’s room was full of people, as was the Guard room, and the area by the Staircase. Victoria noticed with detachment that Procession made an exceptionally beautiful effect.

A flourish of trumpets sounded, then ceased as she entered the Chapel, and the organ began to play. Everything else was a blur; only the sight of Lord M standing beside the Altar was a fixed star upon which she focused her gaze. Unseen, unnoticed, the Duchess of Kent was on her left with the Dukes of Sussex and Cambridge and her Aunt Augusta. On Lord M’s right was his brother Frederick, brother-in-law the Viscount Palmerston and sister Emily.

Wellington stood very close beside her with the Sword of State and despite the strictly ceremonial nature of that great implement, Victoria felt comforted by the tall straight figure of the Hero of Waterloo.

She would remember little of the ceremony, until the moment came when she looked up and met Melbourne’s hooded green eyes, so full of love and sweet concern she was able to force a small smile. He winked – _winked! at the altar!_ Victoria thought gleefully, and felt better than she had since they first set out.

Lord M repeated his vows very distinctly, as though he were standing before the House, with such an elegant, fully confident air that Victoria finally felt a surge of the happiness she had so long anticipated. She said her own vows in a trembling voice. Then they were proclaimed man and wife and the trumpets began and Victoria was swept with feelings of triumph and pride in knowing she was the wife of the most wonderful man in the world, and love so overwhelming it took her breath away. When her gaze met his she saw her own feelings mirrored and magnified. He leaned forward to murmur something in her ear so softly it took a moment to recognize the name. “Mrs. Melbourne.”

Still, when the ceremony was concluded and he took his hand in hers, Victoria began striding so rapidly down the aisle that he had to laughingly caution her to slow her pace.

They were soon surrounded by the guests who had assembled and Victoria knew the ordeal was not over yet. Lord M kept her hand tucked firmly in his arm, and she periodically felt a subtle reassuring pressure. She heard little of what was said by those who thronged about and could only smile and nod, hoping they did not hope for a more comprehensive response. Her ears were filled with the low indistinct sound of the crowds waiting for them, filling the streets as far as the eye could see in every direction, and terror of what was to come made her mouth dry as sandpaper.

The feel of his arm, the thick soft wool fabric of his Windsor jacket against her skin, the reassuring strength of his long lean body beside hers, kept the worst manifestation of her anxiety at bay. Aunts, uncles, cousins from every royal family in Europe stood to greet the bride and groom in turn, and she felt so proud of her husband she quite thought she might burst. Melbourne’s lifelong insouciance and his naturally gracious manner stood him in good stead as he returned each greeting with precisely the proper degree of respect while never abandoning the dignity of his new position as Queen’s consort. For _her_ sake, she knew, understanding how little he cared for the added weight of such dignities on his own behalf.

Finally it was time, or nearly. Victoria saw her guards poised and waiting, and blinked hard as one exceptionally tall military man stepped forward at Lord M’s invitation. It was, she recalled suddenly, the soldier with whom she, and more recently, Lord M, had been corresponding. He was resplendent in bright red uniform jacket heavily emblazoned with medals and ribbons. His long hair was fastened at the nape of his neck by a black ribbon, in a fashion popular when Melbourne had been a child. His uniform was different than that of the Coldstream Guards, and Victoria remembered him derisively referring to them as toy soldiers who had never seen combat.

“Captain Cameron!” Victoria exclaimed, extending her hand. He bowed over it, then turned and bowed to Lord M.

“Colonel Cameron, ma’am. Lord Cameron has received a promotion. You signed it on the most recent lists.” Melbourne smiled, seemingly pleased at having surprised her.

“I invited him to return for the wedding, ma’am. And to visit the House in company with the Duke of Wellington. He will be a special guest when you convene the new session.”

“Indeed. Well, welcome. I am happy you were able to return, although perhaps not on the easiest of days to travel about the City. Are you staying at the Barracks, or in London?”

“I have invited him to stay at Windsor, ma’am. And invited him and his guest – your brother, sir? – to our dinner tonight.”

Victoria inclined her head politely, her mind already on the perilous journey they must take before reaching the safety of Windsor.

“Yes, ma’am, sir,” Cameron said, in his melodic brogue. “If it is all right with you, I’ll ride back in your party. The crowd out there is in fine fettle and drinking to your happiness…but it’s still a damned large crowd and things can always go wrong. Not that you need my help but as long as I’m here…”

“Excellent idea,” Melbourne concurred, looking down at Victoria for her agreement. She only nodded absently.

“Shall we, then?” Victoria drew back her shoulders and straightened her spine.

Once the carriage had gotten underway once more, it was too late to do anything save be alert to any immediate danger. The sheer volume of the collective voices made conversation impossible. Victoria sat bolt upright, clutching her husband’s hand tightly. Out the window, it seemed the people were so close they could reach out and touch them, and to confirm her impression Victoria gasped when a hand reached inside and dropped something – a tangle of stemmed flowers, it appeared – onto her lap. Her gaze flickered to Melbourne, and she saw his own face was tense, although he smiled at her reassuringly.

“What are they saying?” Victoria said, mouthing the words with great emphasis so he could discern what she said.

They both listened closely for several long minutes, intent on distinguishing individual words from the raucous roar. When the carriage jerked and came to a full stop Victoria shuddered violently and slid even closer to her husband. The carriage door opened and Cameron stuck his head inside.

“They want you, Lord Melbourne.” He shook his head and the long hair came loose in a tangled mane. “They’re cheering for you. Look out the window and given them a wave.”

“No!” Victoria protested angrily. “He will _not_ put himself in danger to pander to…”

Cameron shrugged easily. “As you wish, ma’am. But sir, they seem very well disposed to you, even consider you a hero. Not just the Army funding, though most of this class have a brother or son at the front lines. But also –“ a smirk lit up his handsome face. “The ladies consider you a mighty handsome man, and the gents – well, the young ones envy you and the older ones envy you even more.” He winked, and it might have been coarse, except for the earnest sweetness behind his tough demeanor.

“It might speed things up if you gave them a wave and a word or two. Or even moved to an open carriage."

**


	27. Chapter 27

Victoria lay half-asleep on the sofa in her small private sitting room, arm flung over her head, eyes filled with tears of pain, frustration and embarrassment at her own weakness. Above all, embarrassment. She hated giving in to weakness, of failing at her duty, and worse, knew that she had provided ample ammunition to those who were looking for signs that the marriage was doomed, that she was a stupid girl overcome by vapors at the prospect of her wedding night.

Headache, stupid sick headache! It had been brewing since she awakened with too little sleep, its grip grown exponentially tighter, more relentless, at the crowds and her spiraling, irrational fear that they meant harm to Lord M, and then launched its full frontal assault as she’d forced herself to smile blankly and receive the girl.

Susan. Lord M’s ward. A girl of nearly her own age, who had known him and his wife since infancy, had lived with them as a part of their family. Had lived with _him_ , alone, until even he conceded that people began to talk, to speculate on the exact nature of their new Prime Minister’s relationship with his young female ward.

 _You know how people are, ma’am,_ Emma Portman had said. _Always too eager to ascribe scandal to William, whatever he does._

 _But in each other case it was truth,_ Victoria had wanted to retort. _Mrs. Norton, Lady Brandon and those ‘exotic practices’ you refused to tell me about. Us._ Oh yes, those early rumors about the Prime Minister and the Queen had been unfair, but had they really? Whether or not they had consummated their relationship, they were drawn to each other from the first, falling in love since the beginning. _So tell me again how rumors are not based on truth_.

Even having such thoughts was unfair, Victoria knew. Whatever had happened before he knew her, it was what he had done since that mattered. And Victoria felt the absolute truth of his love, of that she had no doubt.

Those thoughts running relentlessly in circles through her mind made the imaginary claws of her migraine dig deeper. She moaned and retched helplessly into the chamber pot beside her.

**

_Needing to decide quickly, Melbourne had agreed to step out of the carriage and greet the crowds calling for him. He immediately dispensed with the notion of speech-making – he knew himself to be no natural public speaker, even in the House, and would not be heard above the roar of those assembled – and instead asked that a horse be quickly procured from one of the Cavalry. Cameron moved quickly to comply, his great height and broad shoulders working in tandem with an air of command and great physical strength, taking a mount from some young officer and leading it to the side of the carriage. A few curt commands and the soldiers riding in rows four abreast formed a seemingly-incidental cordon around Melbourne while he swung himself into the saddle. He muttered only a warning to the Colonel – for God’s sake don’t huddle over me as though I need a shield – and then mustered a smile and a gentle wave._

_The crowd roared. Those nearest, who had been lining the road through the park since the night before to secure their vantage points, could be most clearly understood. Cameron had been correct, Melbourne thought with another small smile at the humor of it all. Stout, red-faced working women yelled out the bawdiest of compliments on the new bridegroom’s presumed prowess that his Lordship was unable to resist answering with an almost-bashful grin. Their men, taking no offense, only cheered their bravado, encouraging the wedding night to commence forthwith, as Lord M carried the honor of all older gentlemen on his shoulders._

_Ahead of the small footbridge a group of women stood apart, holding a banner that identified them as the mothers of boys serving in Kabul and Kandahar. Cameron steered his horse toward them and in the first display of military discipline Melbourne had seen in the roguish fellow, sat up very straight and saluted. No more than 25, an extremely handsome well-muscled officer with the long flowing locks of a true cavalier, he thought the Irishman far more suited to be the darling of the crowd than a retired politician. The crowd seemed to agree, directing their cheers to him for a long minute, led by the mothers who recognized the insignia of their own sons’ regiment, but then Cameron doffed his feathered helmet with an exaggerated sweep and saluted Melbourne in turn, shouting back, “He’s the reason your boys will fight and live, ladies,” and so the crowd roared for Melbourne once more. Cameron returned to his side, grinning so widely incongruous dimples showed in both cheeks._

_“Sir, let’s get you and her the fuck out of here.” He gave a terse order to the phalanx of Coldstream Guards leading the carriage, then a curt one-word command to the rider of the lead carriage draft horse._

**

Victoria had torn loose the pins which held her tiara in place and frantically tugged at her own gown, unbearably overheated and desperate to be free of her bindings. Her maid stepped forward tentatively and reached out a hand, then drew courage from her mistress’s compliance and quickly, efficiently removed jewels and gown, untied her stays and withdrew the offending corset which constricted her breathing. As soon as she was freed Victoria waved the girl off and rushed to the privy, emptying what little she held in her stomach.

She had not taken her leave, had merely slipped out of the formal hall while her reception was still in progress, knowing that she would complete her humiliation by vomiting publicly if she didn’t hurry to find privacy. Lord M had been standing with _them_ , with his guests from Geneva, when she left.

Susan. Susan Churchill. Susan Cuénod, wife of Aimé Timothée Cuénod now. Ward of Lord Melbourne, the child he had raised alongside his own son, and yet she’d known nothing of her existence until the day before her wedding.

Victoria was confused and ashamed of the jealousy which consumed her, because there was no hope of resolution. Susan was grown and married and lived far away, and before that had been a discarded child, one of Caro’s cousins born out of wedlock with no parents willing to claim her and no home save Brocket Hall for all of her childhood. Whatever had passed between them – and it made her stomach churn to contemplate the merry family group they had all made, while she was alone at Kensington – it was done long since. He’d done what he conceived to be his duty, no more, was legal guardian of the girl until her marriage, funded her education and provided her with a dowry.

But Susan knew him, had shared parts of his life Victoria never could, was familiar with him in ways she could never be, and it tormented Victoria to imagine it. _He had done his Christian duty, no more_ , the voice of reason might say. _But he’s mine and I don’t want him to have shared part of his life with another girl._ The others, those mistresses, they were another story entirely. Somehow, illogically, they were less rivals to Victoria than this girl just a few years older than she herself was. And she hated feeling so consumed by jealousy, hated the insecurity that came with needing him so much. Victoria’s secret was that she _did_ need him. No matter how firmly resolved she was to avoid following in her mother’s footsteps and cling to a man, forfeiting all dignity and independence, something inside her felt hollow and incomplete when he was not at her side. Victoria knew she could _govern_ unaided. She needed Lord M simply to _be_. He was her touchstone, the solid ground she depended on for stability, the wind beneath her wings that allowed her to soar.

Victoria closed her eyes and willed her thoughts to stop, summoned the last of her self-control to still her racing mind and allow sleep to heal her.

**

“It has been a long and taxing day. She is exhausted. We will have you to dine privately before you leave.”

Melbourne stood in an alcove adjacent the formal drawing room where those guests had gathered for post-prandial conversation and entertainment. An ornate mantle clock proclaimed it only the midnight hour and he himself felt oddly energized, despite his own lack of sleep.

Eliza – Lady Brandon – was her usual easy-going self, far more at ease as his friend than she had been as a mistress desperate for commitment he would not make. Yet she was his pensioner, and had been since her husband put her out, existing on the allowance he paid annually. Despite her penury and utterly without resources of her own, she had neither spite nor avarice. What a refreshing difference from La Norton’s continued determination to make herself noticed, Melbourne thought.

“What are you thinking, William, when you smile at me so on your wedding night?” Melbourne was startled until he saw the laughter in her eyes.

“I am thinking that I like you far better as a friend than a mistress, Eliza,” he answered lightly.

“You never chose your mistresses very wisely. As your London bluestocking told you once, you loved us for our faults, not in spite of them.”

“Fortunately not a mistake I will have to repeat then. I am out of the way of choosing mistresses. I am well and truly married now.”

“That never stopped a man before,” she snorted, inspiring laughter in both of the young women at her side.

“It will stop me,” Melbourne answered mildly. “I find I have no such inclination.”

“William, why?” Susan’s frank question was expressed without malice, but neither was it particularly warm. Melbourne studied her face, seeing – impossibly, of course – so much of Caro at that age. They had been cousins but more, this child had adored Caro and modelled herself on her, frank, unorthodox, bold and almost boyish except for a vein of raw, unformed sensuality that could not be suppressed, even when she was a mere girl.

“How could you remarry after all this time, and how –“ she jerked her chin sharply in the general direction of the rest of sprawling Windsor Castle. “Why _her_? She is nothing like Caro.”

“No,” Melbourne answered gently, but allowed an undertone of warning to be heard. “She is not. I fell in love. Nothing more explains it.”

He stepped back, setting down the empty champagne flute he still held. “And now I will bid you ladies good night. Eliza, Tom Young will come to Mivart's tomorrow with a draught on my bank. Treat yourselves. And we will entertain you all privately before you return.”

Melbourne bowed to each of them and accepted the kisses Susan bestowed. Then he stepped out of the drawing room and went in search of his wife.

**

Before Victoria opened her eyes she sensed she was not alone. She knew it was him, and turned on her side, away from her husband, miserable and embarrassed at her disarray, at the plain evidence of her physical weakness.

“To bed with you, darling girl,” he said in a husky whisper, picking her up in his arms and carrying her through the door to her bedchamber. Victoria wanted to protest, and thought of struggling so he would put her down, but it felt so good to be helpless and be handled like a child.

Melbourne laid her on the great four-poster bed and tugged off his own tailcoat, dropping it and his white embroidered waistcoat on a chair. Then he began loosening the ribbons which held up her stockings and rolled them down, one at a time. When he’d removed all but her shift he stood over her, and Victoria felt his fingertips stroke her forehead.

“I don’t feel well,” Victoria moaned softly, once more throwing her forearm over her eyes to block out the light.

“Your head hurts?” he asked, without expecting an answer. Instead he turned down the lamp until it was nearly out, leaving only a small circle of amber light shining on the bedside table.

He continued removing her clothing with tender efficiency, then poured water and dipped a rag. The cool cloth felt so good on her forehead, Victoria thought, marveling that he knew just what to do. She lay still, limbs going limp, her body relaxing under his ministrations, and gradually drifted off into the twilight between sleep and wakefulness.

When Victoria came once more to full wakefulness, she saw with relief that Lord M was still beside her. _William_ , she corrected herself. He is no longer my minister; he is my husband before God. She touched the sleeve of his dressing gown, for at some point he had changed out of his day clothes into a soft tapestry garment that thrilled her because it signified he was truly _here_ , to stay, and need no longer resort to subterfuge. He had been sleeping too, for he woke with a little start and looked at her with still-sleepy eyes.

“How do you feel?” he questioned, his voice rough with sleep and so delicious-sounding to her ears Victoria shivered a little.

“Better. Well. My headache is gone. But oh,” Victoria frowned, remembering. “What will they all think? I left my own wedding reception!”

“They will think what the good townspeople did,” Melbourne’s mouth quirked into an amused smile. “That you could not wait to be alone with your husband on your bridal night.”

Victoria made a little moue of distaste. “So you could find me ill and disheveled and quite unappealing as a bride.”

“I’m not sure whose opinion you quote. I find you quite appealing, and I think mine is the only opinion that counts. As you are my bride.”

Victoria followed his gaze and saw that she wore only her chemise, which ended at mid-thigh and had rucked up as she slept. She knew she should cover herself and blush at her own sex so clearly on display but it felt quite delicious and _free_ , to be displayed before him and have every right to do so. Instead she shifted onto her side to face him, and allowed her leg to drop so that she was fully exposed. The air against those hidden places stimulated her pleasantly and she urgently wanted him to touch her.

Instead of reaching for her, Melbourne merely smiled once more lazily and allowed his gaze to rest on her, as though he had all the time in the world.

“Look,” he said finally. Victoria did as she was bid, her eyes finding that wonderful part of him she so loved. He shook his head slightly. “Look,” he repeated. “See what I see.”

When she understood his meaning Victoria did blush, suddenly uncomfortable.

“My beautiful wife!” His voice was full of wonder and Victoria thought, _do I really please him so much?_ She felt confident of his affection, but never truly confident of herself as a woman worthy of his desire. Her flaws were so numerous – too short, always at risk of gaining even a pound which would show on her tiny frame…

“Look,” he said for a third time, his hoarse voice coaxing and caressing. He ran the very tip of his finger along her cleft, so lightly it could barely be called a touch, and Victoria felt herself respond. Tentatively, only to please him and earn another caress, she did as she was bid and propped herself on one elbow to see what he saw. She had never viewed herself there, not even in the bath, and was at first repulsed, then curious, as though what revealed itself was no part of her at all. All her attention was centered on those fingers eliciting wonderful waves of sensation, and yet she allowed - forced - herself to lay back rather than seek out exquisite relief. He was unhurried and so very  _present,_ his attention undiminished even as she rode the crest of her own release.

"Beautiful," he murmured, still looking at her. "Mine."

Victoria made a little sound between purr and moan and insistently pushed herself against him, wanting, needing him inside. Moving with exquisite slowness, so she moaned again, this time with frustrated anticipation, he arranged himself and finally pushed in, filling her so completely she could not imagine ever letting him go. She ran her hands down the length of his body, shoulders to hips and back again, helping him to find their rhythm, the steps of this dance they performed so perfectly.

"You." Victoria stroked him again, savoring the sensation of silky-smooth skin over the taut clenched muscles of his buttocks. "All mine," she whispered and it sounded like a prayer of thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't evolve the way I first intended. They have minds of their own - I'm just the scribe! Perhaps I'll try again at some point - but how do you resist THAT MAN? Elizabeth only had Robert Dudley to contend with, and he was no Lord M.
> 
> Next: Back to the future, aka return to the alternate-alternate reality where Albert and Vicky reached an understanding before marriage, each free to be true to themselves. Albert, of course, never really liked women "that way" and was able to develop into a much more likable, less judgmental young man when freed of marital duty and familial expectation and able to live his own truth. Victoria could have her heart's desire and all lived more-or-less happily ever after. It was interesting to explore who Victoria and Albert might have been if their fledgling characters hadn't been warped into the boring, priggish pattern-cards of middle class "respectability" we knew as "Victorian", putting an end to the magnificent Regency-era cultural renaissance. And even more interesting to allow a different Victoria to emerge, the woman she might have been with a wise, confident man at her side who encouraged her independence and nurtured her strength, rather than the opposite, as happened in "real life."
> 
> If you haven't yet, read "The Time In Between" series of three shorts, and then "Blurred Lines." That's the first in sequence. And..thank you for loving our wonderful William Lamb, 2nd Viscount Melbourne. 
> 
> If you'd like to see more Melbourne, follow @WhitehallSeries on Facebook and Twitter. "Like", share and email your favorite streaming service to tell them you're #TeamMelbourne.


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